Our elder cat, Q, appears to have some sort of dietary aversion to fish, but while his tummy knows this and I know this and The Beloved knows this, Q doesn’t seem to know this. Thus we have to avoid feeding him the dreaded sea creature, but we also have to make sure he doesn’t sneak any out of the bowls of the other cats. For some reason, after I cleaned up a disgusting reminder for the second or third time this morning, I was inspired to poetry. With apologies to Dylan Thomas.
February 2026
Do not spoon tuna into that bowl (splat!)
Old cats will churn and heave at cheap tinned fish;
Rage, rage against the puking of the cat!
Though fool cats in their dreams think not of that
Because their food is yearned for in its dish
Do not spoon tuna into that bowl (splat!)
Young tom, long years gone by, singing E flat
His wail rings no more: tame he is now (-ish)
Rage, rage against the puking of the cat!
Wild puss who caught the mouse and bird and rat
And learned, too late, that yucky organs squish
Do not spoon tuna into that bowl (splat!)
Grave mog, near death (or so his yowls hint at)
Brings up his lunch in meaty chunks — tail goes swish
Rage, rage against the puking of the cat!
And I, his human, knelt on that sad mat
Curse, loud, that beast with paper towels and wish:
I’d not spooned tuna into that bowl (splat!)
Rage, rage against the puking of the cat!