A shivering scrap edges from the cat basket,
and vanishes behind the sofa.
“Poor little soul,” they say,
“Perhaps a little plaice, a little milk.”
“Don’t startle her.”

By morning she has scattered food across the kitchen.
Established a bed in the linen basket.
Removed the vegetables from the rack.
Shredded a roll of toilet paper.
Climbed the lace curtains – to their detriment.
Walked milk into the passage.
Used her box – with a vigorous displacement of the litter.
And fallen asleep on the stove.

She wakes and beams at the first person down.
“I like it here,” she signals.
“How about a game of string?”

Author unknown

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