Cats, Poetry & Death #35: Pickle & Charlie

Cats, Poetry & Death #35

Pickle & Charlie

Pickle

When I get home there he is
Up on the blanket across the sofa arm
Rolled on his back
Its time to play
Tickle the Pickle
Tickle the Pickle on his tum
Scratch his ears
Scratch his head
Tickle him some more
And more…
…and more
Tickling the Pickle can take some time

And when I stop…
…there he is at my heels
On the kitchen sides
In amongst my feet on the stairs
Trying to break my neck!
Watching me bathe and drinking hot soapy bath water
Watching me shave
Sitting or lying on my legs
Watching T.V.
Running for his food
Begging for water
Always at my side.

Charlie

Is here somewhere
Under the bed
Up the stairs to the roof
Out of sight
Hard to find
M.I.A. whenever people call
Desperately seeking solace
When the cleaners come
Popping out to eat
Or drink
Sneaking round my legs when I write
But running for cover
As soon as I touch him

But when morning comes
Charlie too wants his tickle
Ten minutes on the bed before I get up
He flips on his back
Purrs like a freight train
And makes the most of his special time
Just as I do

Pickle and Charlie both sleep on the bed
They fight and bite
And play mad-cap cat games
But each is his own
Each has his style
They’ve been here two years now
And I’m hoping so much
That however much I loved
Their predecessors
It’ll be many a long year before I have to bury another
Loving but sadly departed puss
Iain

 

 

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