SNUG AS A CATT ON HIS RUG

The last I saw of Emil Catt
was his tail going out the door
into the cold
into the snow
claiming his right to wander.
 
An hour later
I realize I have not seen him come back,
so I pull my robe ’round me tightly,
stand at the door whistling for him,
puffs of frosty breath
proving he should be frozen solid by now.
“Emilll! Eeemie! C’mon!”
Whistle, whistle, whistle.
 
I finally shut and lock the door,
muttering about his likely demise
as I move to the front window
to look outside for him.
He lifts his sleepy eyes
to me, confused about why I grumble
as he lies on his fluffy spot in the sun on the bed
where he spends most his days.
 
Once more, I am the fool,
thinking him not smart enough to come in from the cold,
while he has been warm inside all along.
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