Boris – NaPoWriMo 3

It was that noise he made –
Random vowels,
That yowl –
We hear it sometimes
When an engine fails,
Or a gull cries. Sometimes
One of us “does it”,
If we happen
To be reminiscing.

Johnson or Yeltsin?
Someone asked me.
But the name came with him.
It suited him –
Big ugly bruiser,
Dishevelled,
White and blonde.
Languid.
Not an attractive cat.

He was dead before
We took him on –
Resurrected on the day
Our neighbour left,
Reappearing, unangelic,
Unheralded. No one knew
Where he had been,
Or how his ear
Got torn.

We took him in,
Offered the paradise
Of food, bed, cushion,
And he melted
Like butter in the sun,
Hung limp in the arms
Of a small child,
Tolerated kittens,
Cuddles, worming.

Ugly, yes, but so
Good natured,
And so aware,
I always thought,
Of his good luck
In finding us.

That yowl, though,
Shocking –
Shook hands,
Knocked over glasses,
Shook guests,
Knocked over chairs.

And those white hairs –
Because he couldn’t
See you sitting
In the garden
Without climbing aboard.

And he stank.

That yowl, though.

This is by way of an elegy to Boris, who passed away three years ago, after a happy old age. I don’t know much about his earlier years. He’d disappeared for about nine months, and reappared the day his owner left. He’d obviously had a few adventures. He was the best-natured cat I’ve ever known, but had unfortunate personal habits.