My Idiot Cat

Oh, what a nice summer sunrise.
I stretch, yawn and listen to the birds sing,
suddenly disturbed by Phoebe's vocal reprise.
Hack, cough, hack again with the furball thing.

"Can't you do that someplace else?" I say,
looking down at my Persian rug.
She said, "You lick your fur one day,
and see if you don't hack up a plug."

"That is so gross and lower class -
you need a brush through your fur."
"Perhaps you would like to clean my a-."
"That's enough," I said. That is so like her.

"You have never cleaned there very well -
you're too fat to reach your own behind."
She turned and showed her uppity tail
as if to say, Look! See what you can find.

Why can't she be like normal cats,
sleep and laze and stretch in the sun?
Instead she chases unseen bats.
Schizophrenic? Or just having fun.

Then she stops short to see
something else that isn't there.
Could it be a fly or a flea?
I don't know and she doesn't care.

She gets down real low,
and wiggles her butt with intent.
I secretly cheer her to go
and away she went.

Into the couch head first,
so fat for her to get under.
I laugh and she did curse.
My, that was quite a blunder.

I picked her up and rubbed her head.
She hugged me close and mewed.
"That's o.k. sweetiekums," I said.
And that of course ends our feud.