The Cat Will Play

Horatio, you sly feline. You think you're smart. Yes, you think I don't know what you do when I go to work. But I know, old boy, I know. I know that you clean your slick gray fur in front of the mirror. I know that you make sure that your collar is straight and that your whiskers are trimmed. You have to look your best when she's there, don't you? I know that you invite that calico from the garden over when I'm at work. I know that you two play my Coltrane records to get you in the mood. I can picture you two tapping your paws and bobbing your furry heads to the beat, feeling the groove, digging that sax. I can picture you laying next to her, your tail like a pendulum, your yellow eyes giving her that "come hither look." When I come home, there is a plume of blue cigarette smoke hanging in the air and two empty wine glasses with paw prints on the coffee table. And you Horatio, lie there in the blanketing sunbeam from the window, pretending to daydream of mice.