A Philosophical Cat

 

During my life I’ve had about twenty cats,

some cherished, some endured as a martyrdom,

but one cat above all I recall with surpassing love—

Pascal, named after the discoverer of the vacuum.

 

Named because of his quizzical, diffident curiosity

that appreciated music, dialectic, and nuance.

Yet it was his calm accepting joy in life

in which I found delight and comfort.

 

I could stroke him electric without his biting me,

yet he was never demanding of attention.

His only flaw was that he played with victims

before cracking their skulls with toothsome yawn.

 

Enticing a mouse (okay) or chipmunk (not okay),

he would fondly play catch and let go for ten minutes or so,

then the poor chipmunk would discover too late

that the game ended with splattered brains.

 

Pascal lived a long life, seventeen years.

He was good at avoiding road vehicles,

liked to prance on the roof of the house,

though sometimes cried for help to get down.

 

Later, at the end, he disappeared for several days.

He returned bloated with white writhing maggots.

Sandy bathed him and attempted to give him medicine,

but he refused it, laying immobile on the kitchen floor,

 

drinking only water, reclining in his toweled box,

sleeping, but making the occasional farewell mewl

when a member of the family passed by.

Pascal opened his eyes at the sound of my tread.

 

Not a whimper escaped his throat at all

until I stopped to give a long, pitying look.

He opened his eyes, hooked me hard in the eye,

me-owed why, why, and expired like a god.

 

—Kevin T. McEneaney