Dogs are all the same
at the animal hospital.
You’ve seen them, Boris.
Pacing and complaining
and peeing on the floor.
And the cats,
with their heads tucked
inside their owners’ bellies,
they aren’t much better.
How is it then, Boris,
that you are so
magnanimous
when you arrive?
Sitting quietly in your
kitty bag,
taking stock of
all the wimps
around you,
pausing now and then
to wash your pretty feet.
And when I carry you
into the examining room
it is you who does
the examining.
Freed from your bag,
you move from table to
chair to table,
inspecting all the instruments
and spray bottles
and that big jar of dog treats
behind the soap.
Taking your time.
And when the doctor
walks in,
you are stretched out
on that stainless-steel counter,
humming a tune
and wondering if anybody
is up for a game of Scrabble.
Outside in the waiting room,
the waiting and pacing
and crying and moaning
goes on,
but in here, Boris,
everything’s cool,
we are so very cool,
and the man you now
refer to as Doc is
admiring your
thick gray coat and your
sharp white teeth,
and your purr is making the
room tremble.
A hospital takes
the measure of a man,
Boris, and you are the
manliest man of a cat
any of us has ever seen.
Tossing a dozen dog biscuits
into your kitty bag,
you say sayonara
when the exam is done,
and the doctor retreats quietly
into his office
to pop a couple
testosterone pills,
while out in the waiting room
the place falls into a hush
as you pass by,
already curled up
with the latest copy of Cat Fancy
in one paw
and a martini
in the other.