Although she’d spent her entire days
There next to the great glass door
(At first beneath a gently rotting deck
Then later on the patio that was beneath it)
She’d only barely grasped
There was another world inside,
Another world, perhaps with cats like her,
But no trees, no birds, no flowers or grass.
Years came and went, heat and cold,
Rain and sunshine, day and darkness,
Food and water marvelously appearing,
Brought by the man who lived beyond the glass.
Then one bitter winter night
When the water bowl had frozen hard,
The door opened, she felt the warmth within,
And with noght to stop she slipped on through
And the door slid shut behind her!
Where were the trees, the outside air,
The box with rags where she had slept,
The shrub-filled yard she’d always known?
Broad bare floors, shelves crammed with books,
A hard brick hearth, odd things of wood and cloth,
Strange smells and sounds,
The man himself, softly talking to her.
She cried and ran from place to place,
Threw herself against a window,
Hid under furniture hours at a time,
Insisting this was not her world, was wrong.
The soft and aged cats inside
(Who didn’t even speak her tongue
Or so it seemed) just stared,
Then walked away to other rooms.
She told the man as best she could
(Even when he gently touched her back)
That however warm she was unhappy
And craved to be outside
Despite the water and the tasty food
He placed there for her
Near the door she’d entered in
(What perilous steps those were!)
Then, in another day or two,
He opened the door once more.
She walked back through,
Got chased around the yard by Blacky,
(Just in sport), then washed herself
And trotted off with purpose strong
To check if everything she’d known in life
Was still in place, still there for her.
And so it was.
©2022 John I. Blair, 2/26/2022