Boris, Page 3

  We pulled the ottoman up

  as close to the screen

  as we could,

  and now that it’s cold outside

  and you’ve never

  been much of a reader,

  all you do

  is sit in front of that video

  and bat at the birds

  on TV.

  What’s worse—

  besides our slight

  dismay that we

  know you’re being tricked

  and you don’t—

  what’s worse

  is that we’re missing

  all our favorite shows.

  It’s the usual family crisis:

  one TV and everyone

  wants to watch it.

  We tried to get you interested

  in our shows, Boris,

  but you just

  don’t get the jokes.

  And nobody even moves

  on that one game show.

  You like

  TV that moves.

  That’s why you love

  your kitty video.

  Birds fly in,

  birds fly out.

  Just like outside.

  Except now

  we all sit and watch you

  watch the birds.

  What would the pioneers think

  if they could see us?

  They knew what to do

  with their evenings.

  Dip candles,

  make socks,

  sharpen their

  thingamajigs.

  This is why people

  are so pessimistic

  about the world today.

  Because we’ve given up

  making socks

  to watch cats

  sit in front of TVs.

  Of course,

  how many yuks

  did those pioneers get,

  sewing and dipping?

  Not many,

  I’d say.

  Probably none.

  But when we watch you

  rise up on your hind legs, Boris,

  and take a swing

  at that television,

  well,

  all we do is laugh.

  We laugh every time.

  You still don’t get the joke, Boris,

  but it doesn’t matter

  because you’re having fun

  and we’re having fun.

  And years and years

  from now

  we are going to say,

  “Remember when

  Boris watched TV?”

  and we’re going to

  have a really good laugh

  which, I repeat,

  is more than the

  pioneers ever had

  sewing their

  warm and serious socks.

  12

  I know how you love her, Boris,

  your sister,

  and I,

  an only child,

  envy you.

  Animals are lucky.

  They are almost always

  part of a litter.

  And wasn’t it wonderful,

  when you were a baby, Boris,

  to sleep in a pile

  of brothers and sisters,

  all that warm breathing,

  and the knowing

  you were not alone?

  You should see how

  we humans do it.

  We have one baby

  at a time, mostly,

  and as soon as it is born

  we put it in a box

  all by itself

  and though we put

  warm booties on its feet

  and a little hat on its head

  and wrap it up

  snug in a blanket,

  that baby is far from snug.

  That baby is

  going to scream

  for hours

  and everyone is

  going to think

  it’s gas,

  but, really, Boris,

  it’s because God forgot to

  make people

  in litters.

  How many baby kittens

  do you see

  screaming for hours?

  None.

  Who would,

  curled up in

  a big pile of fur

  and feeling somebody

  lick your ears

  now and then.

  Why is it God

  forgot to give

  humans company?

  Even if a human

  is lucky enough

  to have a brother

  or a sister,

  it takes nearly a year

  of waiting

  and even then

  it’s a disappointment

  because all they

  do is scream.

  I have lived

  a good while, Boris,

  and I have never

  gotten used to

  being alone.

  But you, Boris,

  you have always

  had your sister

  and this is why

  you don’t go looking

  for new friends,

  as I do,

  or haunt the coffee shops,

  as I have,

  or worry that

  no one likes you.

  You have always

  had

  someone

  to come home to.

  13

  Boris likes to play spinnies.

  That’s when we put you down

  on the hardwood floor,

  all stretched out,

  and we give you a twirl.

  Around you go.

  Spinnies!

  We get you going like

  a merry-go-round,

  and you lose every ounce

  of feline dignity

  as you whip around

  at our whim,

  and we are delighted

  by your silliness.

  But when you get tired

  of the game

  and try to walk away

  and we say,

  “One more time, Boris,”

  that’s when we

  see the tiger in your eyes.

  That’s when the big cat

  on that little circus stool

  just an inch from eating

  his trainer if there’s one more flaming

  hoop to jump through

  shows up in your eyes, Boris.

  And you take that spinnie

  in stride,

  but we all know,

  we all know,

  you are humoring us

  and we are on very thin ice

  indeed

  and suddenly

  it is we who look so silly,

  big dumb humans

  giggling at spinnies

  when we should be

  building rocket ships

  and making art

  instead of giving Boris a go

  one more time.

  It must be then

  such a thin thread

  between love and hate

  for you, Boris.

  And only because you

  are better than we are

  and more noble

  and patient

  and with a real ability

  to weigh things in the balance

  that you forgive us

  and take one last ride

  before you get up and walk away

  like it was no big deal,

  just going with the flow,

  no problem.

  Saving face, Boris, as you

  leave us in that

  big empty space on

  the floor

  with our

  dull imaginations

  and embarrassing

  lack of control.

  But can we do spinnies

  tomorrow?

  14

  Boris, you weren’t supposed to

  beat up an old cat.
>
  Yes, he was new to the neighborhood.

  Yes, he was on your walking path.

  But, Boris, he was

  seventeen years old

  for godsakes.

  Arched and hobbling like

  a bent-up coat hanger.

  And didn’t you admire him,

  just a little,

  the way he insisted on

  following his owner to

  the end of the path,

  though it must have

  seemed a day’s journey to him,

  that path you streaked across

  in seconds?

  And, Boris, even worse,

  you hid in the tall grass

  and pounced.

  Didn’t even face him

  like a man.

  There is a word for

  you today, Boris,

  and it is thug.

  But how can we not

  love you anyway.

  And not sympathize,

  at least a little,

  with your desire to

  knock that decrepit

  old cat to kingdom come,

  because in him

  there is your future,

  and mine.

  There we are, Boris,

  in a blink of time,

  and don’t you hate

  being reminded of it?

  I do.

  Checking the mirror

  every day

  to see how nearer

  I’ve come to that.

  To that pathetic old cat

  trying to stay on the path

  until it ends

  where the bright water is,

  and the seabirds,

  and the sun.

  Not giving all that up just yet.

  Even when some young

  whippersnapper

  says it’s time.

  15

  The accountant’s wife

  came and knocked

  on my door one night

  and told me you’d

  come in through her

  pet flap

  and sprayed

  her couch, Boris.

  Plus scratched her cat.

  Plus she came home

  one day and found you

  sleeping upstairs

  in the middle of her bed.

  She is one of those

  taut little women

  who wears jogging clothes.

  I knew those girls in college,

  those girls you’d avoid

  in the dorm bathroom

  because you knew

  they were going to sure see to it

  that you didn’t have

  too much fun, missy,

  you and your happy friends.

  Girls like that

  become accountant’s wives

  in jogging clothes

  who tell people

  to get rid of their cats

  for acting like cats

  and who think

  if they cut holes

  in the walls of their houses

  they have a right to complain

  if someone uninvited steps in.

  And sprays and scratches

  then takes a nap.

  At first I said sorry, sorry.

  I’m so sorry.

  I’ll find him a new home.

  Then I came to my senses.

  Accountant’s wife: Screw you.

  I know your kind.

  I’m keeping my cat,

  so just plug up your hole.

  And while you’re at it,

  cover that

  stupid pet flap.

  16

  Where do you go at night, Boris?

  Where do you go that I can’t,

  being a girl who knows better

  than to

  roam alleyways

  in the dark,

  the one lesson from my

  adolescence that stuck.

  But let me tell you a

  secret, Boris.

  I used to know the

  night, too.

  When I was ten and

  the world wasn’t

  what it is,

  I used to creep

  out over the dark wet grass

  to the shed out back

  whose roof I could climb on

  and, catlike,

  sit and watch and listen.

  It is exquisite

  to be alone in the dark,

  a feeling of danger

  at the edges,

  but there’s your

  house right there,

  there’s the door,

  don’t worry.

  Is this what it is for you, Boris,

  sitting on the neighbor’s roof

  in the black night

  and seeing my window there?

  Can you hear my breathing,

  the dogs’ deep sighs,

  your sister’s purr

  carrying over the

  rippling night air?

  And do you think, Boris,

  how terribly beautiful

  it all is,

  this world that

  lives in a frenzy all day,

  then drops

  limp

  like a new baby

  into the deep sleep of night?

  When I was ten

  and on a roof,

  I may have thought

  such things.

  In the silent black of night,

  only deep reassurances