Tomcat

Tomcat

Our cat is a grey‐and‐white fellow, A real buddy, no joke, no lie. With tiger stripes across his back.
Belmondo is his name, though Bebe is our cry.
With a snowy white collar around his neck, A true gentleman,
keeping everything in check.
When he walks, he’s a soldier on parade, In pure white slippers,
perfectly made. Once he’s licked his bowl clean and bright,
He’s up on the sofa, out of the light.
Sitting there, combing his fur, he pauses to peer,
Twirling his long whiskers, feeling no fear.
He lifts his eyelids as if to demand: "What is it? This is my house,
my land!" He stretches out, spinning a purr like a thread.
Now on his back, now on his side, in his bed.
Then he covers his head with his paws so neat.
Curls up his legs and squints at the heat.
But don’t try to pet him—he won't allow that
His ears twitch fast; his tail gives a tap.
Nervously drumming, as if to say:
"Enough! I’m no doll for your play!"
In the morning, he’s the first guest at the door.
Waiting calmly, then stepping onto the floor.
A confident "Meow" for a good morning wish.
Then a dash to the spot, to his under‐table dish.
Only Bojan is allowed to pester and tease.
But Olja is the one he aims to please.
He follows her closely, just like a hound.
Calling for her with every sound.
When he’s done "talking" to the folk in the hall.
When his fur is combed and he’s purred through it all,
He says, "That’s enough, I’m off on my way,"
Standing by the door, he has something to say. With a "Meow," he begs, "Open up, let me go!"
And once he steps out, he huffs like a foe.
Hissing like a dragon, letting them know.
To all the other cats, a warning, a sing:
"Listen and hear! In this yard, I am King!"