Our cat wants to join us where the fire draws.
Hind legs stretched on the step in frosty air
he reaches the doorknob with his fore paws.
But for want of thumbs he’d be in my chair.
Trying to turn the brass he’s as bold as
he cries plaintively (from our point of view)
which we ignore, admiring his pizzazz
from the swelled head of evolution’s queue.
He hones unsheathed claws on carpeted stairs
and although we concede animal rights
springing on bench tops and moulting mog hairs
means he’s shut out even on freezing nights.
If we were small like cats, with him our sizeone dark winter evening we’d be his prize.
Ian C Smith, Australia