FOUR CATS ARE TOO MUCH WITH US

Linda Eisenstein

 

Four cats are too much with us. Everywhere

I look today, there's fur in largish clumps.

The record player wobbles from their jumps,

and nobody can find an empty chair.

 

They're in, and out, and in. They don't go far:

mainly onto the front porch, where it's warm.

My husband, in a doorman's uniform,

stands sentinel beside the VCR,

 

listening for scratches, howls, insistent squeaks,

the varied repertoire of their commands:

Don't dawdle, buster -- you're the one with hands,

we haven't had a decent meal in weeks.

 

There are a dozen showdowns every day.

The baby shrieks when Tootie tries to bat her;

poor Benny, out of self defense, grows fatter,

while Bump, neutered for years, decides to spray.

 

The wallet empties as the budget soars;

we diet, but their highnesses do not.

I saw the vet out shopping for a yacht;

my husband merely longs for swinging doors.

 

Four cats are quite an armful; in our laps,

our beds, our dreams, they crowd and stretch and purr,

nuzzling each other's aromatic fur,

and grace us with the privilege of their naps,

 

and lick our ears, and gently chew our hair:

I can't remember life without them there.

 

Copyright 1994 Linda Eisenstein

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