She’s purring on my lap right now,
Countess, who shredded my arm
two days ago, trying to kill Katisha,
whom I imprudently carried past her.
Katisha, our resident Abyssinian:
such huge dark eyes, long limbs,
tiny head, huge ears and supple grace
she inherits from her desert ancestors.
Countess: smaller, not so aristocratic,
also Abyssinian, but redder, cuddly,
with a troubled past: health issues
that have brought her to our fostering care.
Now she has left my lap to prowl
along the top of the warm radiator,
head down, a tiny lioness seeking
something she will not disclose.
I want to keep her longer than
the proposed three months, although
her plans include an assassination
I must oppose: but oh, she’s purring.