My Book of Profane Poetry

January 19, 2021 — 16 Comments

As I type this, Predator Face is literally bouncing off the walls. I don’t know what has gotten into him, but he is galloping up and down the stairs, racing through the living room, swatting at toys as he scurries by. And yes, occasionally he pauses to jump into the air and pounce against the wall. His tail is fully erect. His pupils are dilated as wide as his eyeballs. And despite what you are imagining, it’s not cute. It’s irritating as Hell because this pecker has been running wild like a caffeinated toddler since 4:30 this morning, and I am fucking exhausted.

It was the sudden, sharp clattering that woke me. The first one sounded like something plastic and hallow smacking against the master bathroom’s stone, tile floor. After a blessed, silent pause (but before I could drift back to sleep), something smaller (but more solid and with the hint of a liquid center) landed and skittered across the tiles.

While lying on my stomach, head facing the bathroom, I mustered the strength to flex my eyelid muscles, straining to lift them open. The highest I could raise them was half way. Once my sight adjusted, I realized the sun had yet to peep over the horizon, and by the glow of the bathroom’s night light, I observed the silhouette of a hairy asshole sitting on the bathroom counter, nudging shit over the edge, seemingly astounded by the concept of gravity.

Before Predator Face could break anything, I poured out of bed, hating myself for letting my husband persuade me into rescuing another cat. Like a zombie, I stumbled into the bathroom. My shuffling feet kicked aside the toiletries pawed onto the floor by the little bastard (a brush, a bottle of eye drops, a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste, lip balm, pomade, and a partridge in a pear tree). With a grunt to express my dissatisfaction, I snatched Predator Face from the counter, carried him to the bedroom door, slid him into the hallway, shut the bedroom door, and staggered back to bed.

As my head plopped against my warm pillow, I began to pray that Mr. Sandman would find me quickly. Unfortunately, the plea for sleep was disrupted by a rhythmic scratching at the bedroom door. It rattled incessantly in its frame, but I refused to answer its call, believing that if I just ignored Predator Face like I ignore all of my other problems in life, he would eventually go away. In desperation, I sandwiched my head between two pillows even though doing so smothered me a little and only muffled the persistent battering by half a decibel or two. But the drumming scratch went on. And on. And on. And on. And like all my other problems, it didn’t go away.

I don’t recall what I grumbled as I kicked out of bed, stomped to the bedroom door, and slung it open, but I am sure I wouldn’t have repeated it in my mother’s presence (and I cuss a lot in front of her). I stomped back to bed without acknowledging the entitled fur turd at my feet. But I didn’t go back to sleep; Predator Face wouldn’t allow it. If the bastard wasn’t walking on me, he was patting at my face with his claws or rubbing his meaty, wet cleft lip against my mouth.

So what’s my point? Other than venting my frustrations in a method that is healthier than drinking and drugs, an idea came to me as I wallowed in my misery and self-pity: poetry.

I have found that writing is a therapeutic method of coping. And it’s not like T. S. Eliot ever wrote about it from the “reluctant cat owner” angle. Of course, writing honestly about cat behavior would have ruined the whimsy of his work as I am adamant in that you can’t truly convey the angst and frustration of cat ownership without prolific use of obscenities and crass language, something his audience and critics would have probably frowned upon.

But maybe his loss is my gain. Maybe this is an opportunity for me to realize a lifelong dream. I’ve always wanted to be a published writer. What if I fill a literary void with a work of poetry from the cat owner’s perspective? Possibly call it Middle-Aged Asshole’s Book of Reluctant Cat Owners.

Do you think any agents or publishing companies would go for a profanity laden body of work about how terrible cats are written by a bitter, middle-aged man? Before you answer, here’s a sample for your consideration:

Cats that are young are fun to keep.

They pounce and run and play and leap.

But every morning I want to weep

Because, god damn it, I miss my sleep.

Okay. Okay. It’s not spectacular. I never said I was Emily fucking Dickinson. Maybe a haiku?

Your shit always stinks.

If you’re not covering it,

Light a fucking match.

I admit this needs work. I see that. But I love this new inspiration. However, I better stop fucking around and get to work. I smell a Pulitzer. Or maybe that’s cat shit. It’s been a while since I scrubbed the floors.

16 responses to My Book of Profane Poetry

  1. 

    Sometimes a cat’s gotta do, what a cat’s gotta do… I quit asking myself about their ideas of fun a long time ago. Lately, my black ‘panther’ decided to kill her toy rat – every 5 minutes twice – for half an hour. If never heard a predator that loud. LOL
    Thanks for your post, I had tons of fun with it. It’s always great to read your blog and have a good laugh! 😀

    Liked by 1 person

    • 

      Our deaf cat “kills” one of her toys every now and then and lord have mercy, I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called to complain when she “roars” with it in her mouth. Being deaf, she doesn’t know how loud her meow is, and it can shatter windows!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. 

    OMG. You always crack me up Cary. Thanks for the laugh. It felt great.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. 

    I think this has potential. Unfortunately, my Freeta had to be put down before I got off my ass and made her a social media icon of cat-assery or the star of her own hand-drawn comic book/vulgar poetry journal.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. 

    Two of my three cats do the stomping on me, and chirping into and patting my face starting about an hour before I’m due to wake up. The only good thing about daylight saving time, is the ability to wake them up for once when the clocks change in the spring.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. 

    My cat does this when he wants new stuff in his food dish NOW. I assure you, he’s not wasting away. Seen from above, he looks like a furry bowling ball. I don’t want him to get the idea that he can summon me at any whim, so I close him out of the bedroom until a time of my choosing. Fortunately for this situation, I am deaf. Also, I live in a house with good, solid doors. Might I recommend earplugs?

    Liked by 1 person

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