The mice, alive or dead, some in bloody pieces
\nwould appear in our bedroom at night: you could hear our tawny Abyssinian’s
\nentrance because she would be growling softly.<\/p>\n
Then the torture would begin \u2014 friend of mine once said: Next morning she would lie in the sun peacefully performing her toilette, As the summer drew west, Katisha began leaving mice within swatting distance Looking back, the barometer of Circe’s health was probably that One afternoon in late August, someone found gray Circe, at rest, on a neighbor’s lawn. In this prose-ish poem, I focus on Katisha, our Abyssinian cat, who actually nursed our old cat, Circe through her last days. Continue reading
\nif they weren’t so beautiful you wouldn’t have them in the house<\/em>
\n\u2014 Katisha would torture those mice; we would hear their screams.<\/p>\n
\ncurve herself into a gold clad Egyptian sculpture and sleep
\nin the same pose as our old gray cat, Circe, whose hunting days were past.<\/p>\n
\nof snoozing Circe, who would instantly perk up, have a nice little hunt and torture,
\na pleasant crunchy supper, and drift into a long soft sleep.<\/p>\n
\nthe mice Katisha brought for Circe’s edification where progressively more disabled
\nso that the old cat could enjoy a sadistic activity within her capability.<\/p>\n
\nWe planted a black walnut at the head of the little patch of turned earth.
\nNow Katisha eats all the kills herself, but she questions me endlessly.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"