the little blu cat
sits in a shaft
of sunlight

fastidiously
washing behind
little blu ears
with paws
encased
in crushed velvet

the image,
is ....sublime

as i walk past
the almost god of wrinkly
things and his new apprentice,
lying wrapped about each
other, in food filled plumpness, lying sate,
in the morning sun....

i can not but help ponder,
a house cat,
loved through and through, is probably,
one of the highest levels
of reincarnation......

it is sunday morning,
early....
the boys, still asleep
the nanna,  still asleep
just me....
and the recently fed,
but hoping for more,
blucat shadow,
walk in the garden,

leaving imprints in
the dew laden grass.
i make my way,
with murping shadow
to the fish pond.
we, sit upon the rocks
and watch the koi,
glide smoothly by...

i slowly introduce my
hand,
to the still night-cool water and wait....
for the fish kisses.
the blucat is entranced,
eyes intent on the slow moving tails,
ears forward and twitching....

overcome by
such blatant tempatation,
he makes a swipe
at the gold and black  
goodness.....
and in a flash.....
they are gone ....and he,
is left sheepishly licking
a wet veleveteen paw....

back to me....
not wanting to
see me laughing
.....at his foolishness.

i come home
to
a mexican standdoff
of
sorts

on the inside
of
the window
the
little blucat
with
firebrush tail
and
arched back

facing off against

the big
busterfer jones
tom
from 3 doors
down

black
and white
persian
moggy
more than
twice
the size
of gus blucat


pressed
up
against
the outside
of the glass

normally
the
best of buds
but
there is
a
new girl
in town
and
she sings
a siren song

so it is
bared claw
at 3 paces

as i
put down
my keys
there is a
muted
thump,
thump.

they have
rushed
each other

forgeting
the magic
of glass

and now
as i
finish
r.o.l.f.ing

i see
they
have
retired
to their corners

with that
was'nt me
that did that
dumb thing
look

as they
wash their
paws
with backs
speaking volumes
and eyes still
crossed.

he cleans his paws,
with a delicate pink tongue.
always the left first.

he is a cat of order,
not for him,
haphazard ways.

i sometimes wonder,
how he survives,
in our chaotic house.

but then,
i see him hidden up
high in the bookcase
watching us all, beneath him
dashing madly about,
with amusement,
quivering at his whiskers.

and after all...
he is...
the god of wrinkly things.

the little blucat
surfaces from
underneath
the pile of
cat's rugs
and
old towels
shakes his head
and stretches
his creaking old bones
before going to sit beside
his food dish and scolds
the day for being so long
and bitterly cold and wet.

little blue cat sleeps,
curled in the winter sun.
dreaming, big cat dreams,
run, gazelle, run, run, run.

the sun streams
through the curtains
in a cat sized patch

and there we find him
this connoisseur of apricity
stretched and flat
drinking of the winter day's
meager glory

tail flicking on ocassion
and one eye open..
to the possibilty
of bacon on the run.

he is now of the age,
where he needs warm
his bones ,
before he thinks of...
completing his  yoga
and cleaning down there.

so the little blucat
has become a master
at fitting his body
into any sliver or ****
of winter sun ....

and is often found dozing.
..or as elliot claims,
contemplating the depth,
and meaning of his name....

i wake up at 5.41
again...
curled up in my armpit
the little blucat
blusfully happy
loud rumbling purrs
assure me of that
on my other side
asleep with head
resting on my belly
my soon to be
four years old son
i lie awake
in the dark
smiling...
surrounded by love
and wait for the kookaburra's call