Cato

We started off normally enough, Cato the pet
played his role to perfection, he had even let
me pet him, made me feel all masterly and lordly
I was pleased with this arrangement – what a folly!
For soon, things changed, I became the pet, he the master
I was charmed - I couldn’t, if I tried, grow any fonder.

Into my soiled bachelor pad, some order
was wrought from fashionable disorder.
Cato was finicky and manically clean
He dined in style. Red meat, yes please, but only lean.
Chop it up with chicken liver and red cabbage
Sparkling water in Cato’s Bowl, for beverage.

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!