My cat’s name is Bedhead.
When he wakes up in the morning,
All he wants is to be fed.
Yet I can’t help adoring
His squinty eyes and messy coat
And how he wishes still to be snoring.
When I pick him up, soon a sound comes from his throat,
A wondrous purring, soft and warm.
I hold him in many different ways,
He clings and snuggles, I cuddle and hug.
Other times his paws are crossed
And he gazes as we walk along
At birds perched on white leaves of frost.
When I put him down, he thinks it’s wrong,
And sits, waiting for me to come
He lets out accusing, demanding meows;
As I walk, my pity drums
And turning back, through snow I plough,
To scoop him up again.
When he eats his softened food,
I smile and laugh to hear
A wet, gurgling sound as he chews.
I love it when he rubs my legs;
A gentle nudge or tiny paw,
He doesn’t even need to beg
To be snuggled close and hugged.
His pale green eyes
And light-orange fur,
His larger size
And vibrating purr
Make him utterly irresistible.
He loves his home,
His wooden house;
Whenever he roams
To hunt his mouse,
With stealth and silence
No other can match,
He’ll suddenly pounce
And make his catch,
With quite a smug face
And very full belly,
Yet he always comes back
To the home he adores,
The little shack,
With its musty scent
And fluffy cat-bed.
I love my cat,
And he loves me,
From his pink, wet nose
To his bean-shaped toes.
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