The Cat on the Socks (With Apologies to Dr. Seuss)

The sun did not shine. I was too tired to play. So I laid on the bed like I do every day.

I lay there and Mother, with little to do, lay down there beside me and asked, “How are you”?

I rolled to my side and showed her my tummy. She knew what it meant because Mommy’s no dummy.

She reached out her hand with those glorious fingers and ever so gently, those fingers did linger

upon my soft middle, the warmth, and the fur. Like a little wee engine, I started to purr.

And just for a moment, I wished I could talk so I could thank Mother and beg her, “Don’t stop”!

Those magical fingers continued their work. Until I dozed off only wearing a smirk.

I woke sometime later to such a delight. As mother retrieved a gift bag from the night.

Her brother, my uncle, delivered the sack when no one was home, save for me, in the back.

She opened the shiny green paper to see, the best present ever, for her and for me.

They’re socks made of green, on the front of them, me! I tried to act cool but that gift gave me glee.

I’m now on her feet, in her heart and her mind. A better cat family I never could find.

A sock model now, but what’s next? On a tie? Perhaps a whole shirt or a suit for a guy!

Now, if you don’t mind, I must nap once again. And dream little cat dreams of kibble and cans.

Of sunbeams to lay in and batting at toys. Of treats that smell fishy and other small joys.

Of freshly washed bedding to cover with fur. And the language of happiness: purr, purr, purr, purr.

Miss Sugar, Poet Laureat of Southwold, Ontario