We heard a new cat
was moving in next door
and we thought,
Oh no.
That cat is doomed.
Boris has been sitting
on the next-door deck
for two years, we said.
He’s tagged it
again and again
with his
instantly portable
cat spray.
Everybody listen
loud and clear:
That is Boris’s turf.
The cat is doomed.
Desperate, we took you to the vet
for some plastic claws.
Nice little fake plastic claws
that stick on over
your lethal ones.
We could not
take the chance
that some night
the new neighbors
who were foolish enough
to move next door
with a cat
(what were they thinking?)
would show up on our steps
with a bag full of
shredded fur and teeth
and eyes
that used to be
somebody named Fluffy.
What else could we do?
But you managed, didn’t you,
Boris,
to still climb trees
with your sharp back claws
while we waited for
the new cat to move in.
Then finally, one day,
he arrived.
Harvey.
A six-month-old
piece of gray dust ball
named Harvey.
On your deck, Boris.
Stupid kid.
We waited to see if
you would tear him
to bits with your teeth.
Annihilate him
with a million plastic jabs.
Drop him
like a mouse at our door
and look for praise.
Harvey, we feared,
was not long for this world.
We were wrong.
Boris, you sly cat,
you poser,
you swaggering
bowl of jelly.
You adopted him.
You adopted Harvey,
and mornings we’d look out
and there you’d be,
teaching Harvey to jump,
teaching Harvey to pounce,
playing chase through
the tall reedy grass.
That deck, that infamous deck,
became where you two
sunned yourselves
after the fun and games,
and we could not believe it.
You liked him, that kid.
Reminded you of yourself
when you were just a
young upstart
looking for a role model.
And maybe you’d heard
Harvey’s sad story.
About being out on the streets
of Nashville,
begging.
He got to you, didn’t he, Boris?
So when the plastic claws
dropped off after
three months,
we didn’t replace them.
By that time you were
going into Harvey’s house
for supper
and sleeping with Harvey
at the foot of their bed
and generally just
being a big pussy.
As Harvey grew,
he looked just like you, Boris,
sleek and gray
and green-eyed.
No one could have told you apart
if not for Harvey’s bell.
And when he moved away, Boris,
you left a big bag of
treats on Harvey’s doorstep
and a note that read
“You’re a good kid,”
and you wished him luck,
one guy to another,
sure he’d be okay:
You taught him
everything he knows.