The Assassin

A poem on the joys of owning cats, if in fact it is possible to own a cat!

The Assassin

Briefly the silence is broken,
the click - clack of the flap,
then nothing.
Peripheral vision might catch a flicker
or a deepening shadow
as he slips through the kitchen
not wanting to see or be seen.
Later; much later,
you'll find him in your favourite chair
curled in a sleek ball
eyes closed,
daring you to stroke him
with his nonchalant air.
And there on the floor
an unstuffed trophy lies,
surrounded by its own feathers
having uttered its last tweet.

John Carré Buchanan
19 August 2017

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

Image Source: John Buchanan

Socks is the oldest of our three cat’s and is by far my favourite. We have had him ever since he was a kitten.

Unfortunately when he was a couple of years old I found him lying in a hedge with his elbow shattered and this resulted in him losing his front right leg. His recovery was incredible and I am often amazed when I watch him nimbly hop along the top of a fence. I must admit that I take quite a bit of strength from him, as he never seems to complain or get grumpy about his leg he simply gets on with life.

He is the only one of the cats which will come to me. Indeed he quite often comes into my bedroom at night and curls up on the bed next to me, particularly when I am really suffering with pain. It is almost as if he appreciates what I am going through and comes in to give me support.

This poem is about the way he reminds me that he is a cat and not a life coach ;-)

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

Socks dozes peacefully on the king-size bed.
His small frame dominates the huge bed spread.
With chin tucked to chest and both eyes closed
he gives the impression of deep repose.
Yet, should you approach him,
an alarm bell will chime,
somewhere deep within his mind.

His outward demeanour remains the same
yet inside his sleek fur covered frame
a highly tuned nervous system prepares
and he opens an eye and at you he stares.
In that instant an assessment is made,
which end of the cat will prevail?
the roll of the head or a flick of his tail.

The head roll is not an invitation to run amok,
It’s merely permission to push your luck.
Place a finger behind his ear, or gently rub his chin
enjoy his fur, the soft warm comfort within.
if lucky, you might feel him purr.
But when he tires, or his tummy tempts too much
His tail will flick, perhaps just a touch.

The tail flick is best not ignored
If you don’t take heed your hand might be scoured.
as four razor sharp claws flash through the air
the tail flick was telling you; ‘don’t you dare!’
But he also uses it when he’s having fun,
so take care when Socks flicks his tail
or I’ll have written this poem to no avail.

John Carré Buchanan
03rd April 2013

The Hood

Image Source:

A friend of mine recently had to make the very hard decision to have her cat put down. This was clearly a terrible decision for her to make and she was very distressed by it. She asked me if I would write a poem for her. This was the first time that I had done anything like this and I was not sure how things would go, but I agreed to do it if she gave me some notes.

I was not sure what format to take or how sensitive I would need to be. In the end I decided to write a poem which at first might seem hard hitting but would have a gentle closure offering a degree of hope and comfort.

I asked a few people to read the poem before I gave it to my friend in order to ensure that it was appropriate and they all gave it thumbs up. I then gave it to my friend and it was several days before she was able to give me her feedback, which was fortunately positive. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Hood

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I glance at the armchair as I enter the room
expecting to see two topaz eyes watching me
from under his pure white fur,
but the back of the chair is empty.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I scan the top of the cupboards as I make the bed,
hoping to glimpse the tip of a tail waving at me
or perhaps hear a disgruntled purr,
but Robin, ‘The Hood’, he’s not there.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I check the flowerpots as I tend the Garden,
will I see four huge paw prints in the soil?
His claws will need cutting soon.
Then I remember - he has gone.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I sit and knit in front of the TV,
he does not make me stop.
I can no longer run my fingers
gently through his soft fur.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I slept in this morning,
The alarm clock ran past snooze.
There was no soft paw upon my face
To wake me should I doze.

Yet - as I straighten cushions in the lounge
a patch of white fur appears before me.
Should I drop a stitch as I watch the TV
I feel his celebratory purr on my knee.
Yes - You will always be a friend to me
I just have to close my eyes to see.

John Carré Buchanan
01 February 2013

The Visitor

Image from; pixzii.com

I spent yet another evening watching our cats hunt the other night. They had clearly detected an intruder in the house and were very keen to track it down, but whilst they knew exactly where it was they were not having much success at catching it.

I watched them for a while, but then, having imagined some little critter cowering in a corner with 5 razor sharp claws flashing in at it (Socks is missing a front leg), I decided that I should intervene.

I wrote this poem to record the events of that evening, I hope you like it, please feel free to leave a comment;

The Visitor

The three cats knew it was there.
They sat like sentinels in a semi-circle
at the base of the book shelf.
Occasionally an excited shuffle
or flicked claw disturbed the silence.

I looked, but could see nothing,
yet the cats knew it was there.
I wondered if it was escaped prey
or a visitor in the wrong part of town.
Whichever, three on one, it would not last long.

Amidst frustrated cries, I removed the cats
and shut the door on their wails.
Once I had banished them
I sat silently and waited.
Hours passed and then, a scuffle.

Slowly I raised my gaze and there
on top of a book shelf was a mouse.
Its tiny nose sniffed the air
as it scuttled between the ornaments
Its silky smooth body unharmed.

I laid a humane trap
and bated it with cheese.
I hoped to catch the little beast
and set him safely free,
but the little fella’ had other plans.

I flicked the lights off and went to bed.
The cats remained barred from the room,
but through the night they kept vigil,
yowling and scratching at the door
outside the living room.

Just after dawn I checked the room
The trap had not been sprung
The cats sniffed around unsuccessfully
much to their dismay it seemed
our visitor had got away.

John Carré Buchanan
25 January 2012

The Gift

I’m sure that many of you have cats and knowing what cats are like I suspect many of you will have experienced the ‘pleasure’ of finding the occasional ‘gift’ caught by a cat and then left somewhere in the house for you to find and clean up. In the past our cats have left gifts which have included rabbits, pigeons, small rodents, birds and frogs.

This morning my wife found one such present on the back doorstep, on picking it up it turned out to still be alive, Quickly she fetched a bowl of water from our rain butt and submerged the poor creature in the water before calling me to come and have a look. When I arrived there was a magnificent Gold Fish about 5 or 6 inches long swimming around in the bowl of rain water. She had used the water from the rain butt as it had no chemicals and was the same temperature as the pond.

We debated waking the neighbour, but at that early hour we decided to get the fish back quickly into its own pond in an effort to enhance its survival chances. So my wife clambered over our dividing fence and took the fish back to the pond. Realising the neighbour was actually already awake she knocked on his door and explained what had happened. Fortunately he is a very understanding man. So far it looks like the fish has survived, although it did lose some scales and had a short gash in it.

This was such an unusual gift I thought I would record the event with a poem and share it with you; I hope you enjoy reading it. I would be most interested to know what your cats most unusual present has been, so please feel free to let me know by leaving a comment.

The Gift

Darkness blankets suburban gardens.
Under the distant stars and faint moonlight
The florae casts eerie irregular shadows.
Here in the gloom, concealed by the night;
Tiny creatures forage for food
and use the cloak of darkness to rest,
Unaware that through the dark
steals the harbinger of death.

The sleek body hugs close to the floor.
Large unblinking eyes focus on their target.
The head remains motionless, ears erect
as the shoulders smoothly rise and fall
and the silent paws drive the body forward.
Behind a tail hangs low,
occasionally a slight flick of the last inch
betrays building excitement.

Patiently this master of stealth
used only the darkest patches of shadow
to close the gap between predator and prey.
The eyes, blessed with night vision remained focused,
revealing a cold calculating mind.
Suddenly the moment arrives, the paw strikes,
claws flash with a sudden splash of silver in the dark
and gouge into the flank of the prey.

Proudly she views the poor creature
Flicks it over, mouths it, and plays with it.
She picks it up and trots back to the house,
places the gift on the doormat and
silently enters the warmth of the house.
Later, after the cockerel cries and the birds begin to sing,
the mistress of the house finds the golden gift,
selected so lovingly from the neighbour’s fish pond.

John Carré Buchanan
15 January 2012

* In the second verse I credit the villain of this tale with being "sleek", We have 2 3/4 cats (one is an amputee) and whilst two are sleek, we feel that the paw prints left at the scene of this crime were probably from our slightly more generously proportioned feline friend.

Waiting for Morpheus

One of the issues with CRPS is that it severely disrupts sleep. I’ve spent hours lying in bed racked in pain trying to sleep to no avail. These hours of darkness, when spent alone with thoughts darker than the darkest night, are the hardest to endure.

Recently one of our cats has taken to joining me in the early hours. He too knows what it is to suffer, having lost a front leg several years ago. I sometimes wonder if he gets as much comfort from me as I get from him in the early hours.

In order to improve my chances of establishing a sleep routine, I am now staying up until 03:00 hrs before retiring. I have found that this is giving me a reasonably consistent three or four hours which is a significant improvement on where I was. One of the benefits of this is that when the pain allows I am able to write. This is my latest poem;

Waiting for Morpheus

I lie in the dark, waiting.
Time passes unmeasured,
and here in the pitch black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.

The body craves sleep,
Yet pain forces it away,
and here in the inky black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.

Rapid thuds of paws on carpet,
the cat lands beside me.
and here in the jet black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.

He gently butts me with his head,
then curls in a ball beside me.
Here in the velvet black silence
We wait and wait and wait.

He snuggles in tight,
then begins to snore.
Leaving me to fight black thoughts
as I wait for the arms of Morpheus.

John Carré Buchanan
10 January 2012

Cats Eyes

Image Source:

I have been experimenting with semi educational poems recently, researching a topic, such as Bananas, and then putting a poem together to present the subject to the reader in a way in which something might be learnt. The following poem introduces the Tapetum Lucidum which is a layer in a cat’s eye which reflects the light back into the retina and by so doing making the light twice seen, and the cat better at seeing in the dark.

Cats Eyes

He owns the night
that owns the light.
Tapetum Lucidum and Retina
do their work.
Twice seen light
makes night, light;
and light night
means dinner.

John Carré Buchanan
22 August 2011

This poem is linked to Poets United.