Cato, (My) (A) The Cat

Cato was very much an ordinary cat
who reclined royally on my welcome mat.
No, he wasn’t one of those portly Siamese
with all fur and no brains, none of that for me, please.
Nothing remarkable about his pointy face -
Just a scruffy cat, not one you’d want to embrace.

Cato had just one name, not three, as far as I know
But I could be wrong, as I’ve been before, you know.
I suspect he was eminently capable
of carrying off an effable, effenineffable,
deep and inscrutable singular name, just as
any old poet’s cat, but I dared not ask.

Cato had permitted me just to listen
and chronicle his adventures, wielding my pen.
I was allowed some pertinent questions; the rule
said pertinent, mind, not personal. He was no fool.
Therefore I wasn’t privy to his singular name.
It was a closely guarded secret – what a shame!