After the well-know,
charismatic,
extremely photogenic,
wonderfully articulate,
jeweller-turned-gardener,
your mother dotes on,
this cat is named.
 
He is none of the above
I should say
but I like him.
He reminds me of my late cat
Poppy, a more gauche pusscat
you’d be hard to find.
 
Poppy was a farm cat
of uncertain progeny.
Monty is certainly better bred
but (as we say in West Yorkshire)
‘daft as a brush’.
 
And now for the T.S.Eliot bit . . .
(in the style of
​Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats)
 
Curled up upon the green chair
With his head against his paws
You can see his body breathing
Up and down
 
He’s been busy all day long
Doing absolutely nothing
Save a bit of this a bit of that
And washing clean his paws.
 
Life’s so hard
For such a busy cat,
When you’re asleep in bed
He’s about and out
 
Networking the side streets
Monty likes to know the scene.
These cats could teach us all
A thing or two.
 
In the morning he may be dozy
But you should see him after dark
Sharp and bright and really
On his toes.