Paddy Paws

You smell of rain.
Your muddy paw prints criss-crossing over my legs;
I often call you paddy paws because you always do this
and it makes me smile.

You waltz around my room looking like a mismatched pumpkin-cat,
hitting any piece of string or coin you find so that it noisily scratches across the floor:
I try to tell you off for your tom-cattery ways, but I think this only encourages you.

When you haven't seen me for awhile you come to find me in my room,
giving me pathetic little mews that make you sound like a kitten;
I tease you for this because when you stretch out next to me you come up to my waist.

At night you walk from one door to another, shouting outside them,
you don’t want to walk through them, you just want them open because you like possibilities.
You also like it when I tickle you under your chin; but you never let me do this in front of other cats.

When we walk up the garden together I pretend that we're mobsters because we strut,
and you pretend that we're going hunting, when even if we did hunt we wouldn’t know what to do if we caught anything.

You proved this once when you caught a bird and I cried, you let it go because I shocked you by screaming,
(but I like to think you did it because you didn't want to upset me.)

When I started my new job I had to tell a group something about me, I said:
“I like cats more than people.”
They all laughed and thought I was being quirky,
I wonder what they would have said if I had told them my best friend was orange with white whiskers?

At first I thought you didn’t like it when I wrote because it meant I couldn’t fuss you, but now I think it’s because you want to write yourself:
we’re always battling over the keyboard and you’re presently nudging at my screen.

But since you’re here, and this is about you, and you have written a fair bit (even though I deleted it) I’ll say that this was a collaborative work between us; and you’ll miaow to remind me that it’s dinner time.

The End

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