xmy.only.exitx
11/02/08, 04:26 PM
I once had a pet cat called Ojiro
Who was black with erratically placed white spots,
Like some painter had accidently dropped flecks
Of white paint while he was quietly moving under the canvas.
He had a limp in his right leg which meant running after mice was hard,
So he always cuddled near me and often put his ears to my knees
Like he could hear some rattling inside- arthritis or probably
Bones just being bones.
He used to watch movies with me, and whenever Uma Thurman was on screen,
He purred softly and meekly, like something was going on between them,
Which of course was out of the question, considering Ojiro's
Nasty sense of hygiene, which no girl could possibly tolerate.
I'd always thought of Ojiro as a filthy cat
Yet unexplicably healthy, like those street urchins cloaked
In dirt yet still in the pink of health, jumping higher
On skipping rope and laughing louder than all those squeaky
Clean kids who always look like they've just come out after taking a bath.
But that was until the day he got terribly diseased
He avoided his meals, sulked all day long and didnt once come up on the sofa with me,
Not even for his favorite kung-fu movie,
Then his stool too started smelling of something that reminded me of the chemists,
So I decided it was time for the vet; it was
Something that could not be cured with tickles or sushi.
I'm sure Ojiro had his ears wide open for the diagnosis
Because when the vet finally, after a protracted examination,
Pronounced that nothing could be done, it seemed he heard it loud and clear,
For then as soon as we reached home
He went, like a hermit,
Beneath the sofa and didnt come out at all,
Not even when i called him by his strange name,
Not even when i put some fish outside,
By then i'd figured he was in this other world already
Where i didn't exist and nor did the fish.
It was just him and his pain
Under the sofa.
He died the following sunday.
It was a bright sunny day, the birds were chirping outside,
People were going for picnics, children were running after ice-cream vans,
It was a day that one would expect to work miracles,
But there he was all cold under the sofa,
With his hair stiff and bones poking out in every direction,
And the air of stubborness still hanging around him.
Who was black with erratically placed white spots,
Like some painter had accidently dropped flecks
Of white paint while he was quietly moving under the canvas.
He had a limp in his right leg which meant running after mice was hard,
So he always cuddled near me and often put his ears to my knees
Like he could hear some rattling inside- arthritis or probably
Bones just being bones.
He used to watch movies with me, and whenever Uma Thurman was on screen,
He purred softly and meekly, like something was going on between them,
Which of course was out of the question, considering Ojiro's
Nasty sense of hygiene, which no girl could possibly tolerate.
I'd always thought of Ojiro as a filthy cat
Yet unexplicably healthy, like those street urchins cloaked
In dirt yet still in the pink of health, jumping higher
On skipping rope and laughing louder than all those squeaky
Clean kids who always look like they've just come out after taking a bath.
But that was until the day he got terribly diseased
He avoided his meals, sulked all day long and didnt once come up on the sofa with me,
Not even for his favorite kung-fu movie,
Then his stool too started smelling of something that reminded me of the chemists,
So I decided it was time for the vet; it was
Something that could not be cured with tickles or sushi.
I'm sure Ojiro had his ears wide open for the diagnosis
Because when the vet finally, after a protracted examination,
Pronounced that nothing could be done, it seemed he heard it loud and clear,
For then as soon as we reached home
He went, like a hermit,
Beneath the sofa and didnt come out at all,
Not even when i called him by his strange name,
Not even when i put some fish outside,
By then i'd figured he was in this other world already
Where i didn't exist and nor did the fish.
It was just him and his pain
Under the sofa.
He died the following sunday.
It was a bright sunny day, the birds were chirping outside,
People were going for picnics, children were running after ice-cream vans,
It was a day that one would expect to work miracles,
But there he was all cold under the sofa,
With his hair stiff and bones poking out in every direction,
And the air of stubborness still hanging around him.