Hate That Cat, Page 2
Sharon Creech
(For true.
I am not just saying that
to make you feel good.)
P.S.S. No I cannot write
about my mother.
That would be
IM-POSS-I-BLE.
NOVEMBER 27
Yes, I know
that all those bad things
could happen to a dog, too,
which is why
I
don’t
want
a
dog
either.
I already had
a dog
my dog Sky
my funny furry
smiling dog Sky.
NOVEMBER 30
It’s strange that now
when you read a poem to the class
I hear alliteration popping out
everywhere.
I never heard it before
or maybe I heard the sounds
but I didn’t know why they were
sticking in my head.
Yesterday after you read the eagle poem
by Mr. Tennyson
(is he alive?)
those first two lines stuck stuck stuck
in my head:
He clasps the crag with crooked hands
Close to the sun in lonely lands . . .
And I could see that eagle
all day long
clasping the crag with his crooked hands
in those lonely lands
just sitting up there watching
watching
before he
F
A
L
L
S
boom like a thunderbolt!
Does he swoop into the sea
and snatch a fish?
Or a little mousie on the hillside?
Or a creepy cat?
Sorry. Just kidding.
DECEMBER 4
THE DOG
(INSPIRED BY MR. TENNYSON)
BY JACK
He pats the kitten with puffy paws
near the window draped with gauze
and yawns and opens up his jaws.
The wrinkled rug beneath him lies.
He watches with his big black eyes
and like a lazy boy he sighs.
Well.
At least the dog
did not
EAT
the kitten.
DECEMBER 6
Those kittens of yours
surprised me
they got so big
and they are so funny
(especially for cats)
and that black one
with the white spot
on her forehead
she fell asleep
right in my lap
even though I didn’t
pet her
well, only a tiny bit
and she was purrrrrrrring
while she slept
so I think she was happy
but
don’t get me wrong
a dog is still much better
than a cat.
DECEMBER 11
THE RED-HEADED MAILMAN
(INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)
BY JACK
So much depends upon
a red-headed mailman
walking up the drive
holding a blue postcard.
Did you BELIEVE
the postcard I brought in?
Did you BELIEVE
that Mr. Walter Dean Myers—
my all-time favorite poet
who visited our class
last year—
that Mr. Walter Dean Myers
himself
sent me a postcard?
I didn’t believe it
when I saw it.
I sat right down on the steps
and read it about fifty times.
And do you BELIEVE
That he mentioned his
C A T ????
His CAT !
I love that postcard
love love love it
but I’m still a little surprised
that Mr. Walter Dean Myers
has a CAT.
I thought he would have
a dashing dog
or maybe a hearty horse.
It is hard to picture
Mr. Walter Dean Myers
with
a
CAT.
DECEMBER 13
Yes
I wrote back to
Mr. Walter Dean Myers.
I asked him
why he likes his
CAT
so much.
I asked him
if he ever thought about
getting
a
DOG.
DECEMBER 14
THE BAD BLACK CAT
I was standing at the
yellow bus stop
minding my own business
when I heard
mew mew mew
like it was coming from the sky
mew mew mew
and I looked up and saw
a big black cat
all fluffy fur and green eyes
crouched in the tree
mew mew mew
and I thought it was stuck
and so I climbed up the tree
way up high
to the skinny branches
and I leaned way out
and the bus was coming
and I leaned out farther
and grasped the black tail
of that black cat
and I was so glad I’d caught it
I was going to save it
and it would be so relieved
and grateful
and the bus was coming
and that fat black cat
leaped BACKWARDS
onto my head
and it scratched my ears
and my neck
and my face
and it hissed the most awful
spitting horrible hisssss
as it scratch scratch scratched
with claws as sharp as needles
and I was bleeding all over the place
and the cat scrambled across my back
and onto my legs
and
d
o
w
n
the tree
while I lay there
clinging to the branch
stinging and bleeding
and the bus
passed
right on by.
I hate that cat.
DECEMBER 17
Why did the man
throw the cat
out the window?
He wanted to hear
it say
“Me-OW!”
(I made that up.
I thought it was very funny
but maybe you won’t like it.
I will try to stop saying
mean things
about mean cats.)
DECEMBER 18
I thought you were kidding
when you said that
Mr. Walter Dean Myers’
grown-up son Christopher
had written a book called
Black Cat!
I felt like
Mr. Walter Dean Myers’
whole family
must be in my brain.
When you started reading the book—
Black cat, black cat
cousin to the concrete
creeping down our city streets . . .
—I thought it was going to be about
a mean cat
like the mean black cat
that attacked me.
All the words were
singing in my head
and I was thinking
Wow, that Mr. Christopher Myers
knows about alliteration!
And it turned out not to be
a m
ean cat.
It was a sauntering and sipping
and dancing and ducking cat
wandering through the city streets
just like a kid
roaming
and
poking
around.
DECEMBER 19
I read Black Cat to my mother
tapping my fingers
in the rhythm
like you showed us:
HARD-soft HARD-soft
slow and then faster.
She drew a circle with her finger
which means again
so I read it over, tapping
and then she put her hand up:
Stop
and I watched while she tapped
the same rhythm
as
she
turned
the
pages
HARD-soft HARD-soft
slow and then faster
and then she closed the book
and tapped her heart
HARD-soft HARD-soft
slow and then faster.
DECEMBER 20
When you put up that one line
from the eagle poem—
He clasps the crag with crooked hands
—and used all those different colored chalks
to show how Mr. Tennyson
managed to cram in
ALLITERATION
and
ASSONANCE
and
CONSONANCE
all in one line
well
I was impressed
but that doesn’t mean
I remember which is which
and
I will never be able to do all that stuff
that Mr. Tennyson does
and did he know he was doing it
when he did it?
I feel stupid.
I am a bad writer.
I’m going to quit.
DECEMBER 21
Thank you for telling me
I could FORGET
those confusing words
and that it isn’t knowing the words
that describe writing
that is important—
it is the thoughts in our heads
that are most important
and that feeling the rhythm
is even more
wondrous
than hearing the rhythm.
And
thank you for saying
I am a genius
(even though I know
you are exaggerating).
JANUARY 3
THE GIFT
(INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)
BY JACK
So much depends upon
a black kitten
in a straw basket
under the Christmas tree.
JANUARY 4
My parents woke me
so early
and seemed in a hurry
to rush me downstairs
to the Christmas tree blinking
and
the fire crackling
and I didn’t see it right away
that little straw basket
tucked to one side
I was on the floor
pawing through the packages
when something moved—
I thought maybe it was a mouse
that had crept inside
and I jumped back
(not that I am afraid of
a mouse
but it wouldn’t be my
favorite thing
to encounter in a pile of presents)
—and then I saw
a blur of black fur—
and I thought
Oh no!
No no no no!
It’s the fat black cat!
But then:
a pink nose
tiny black paws
and blinking sleepy eyes
a small black fur ball
not a BIG fat fur ball
a kitten
stumbling
out of the basket
and wobbling over to me
and crawling up on my lap
and licking my pajamas
and I forgot
that I hate cats
as it crawled up onto my chest
and purrrrrred
and I was smiiiiiling
all
over
the
place.
JANUARY 8
SO MUCH
(INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)
BY JACK
So much depends upon
a black kitten
dotted with white
beside the photo
of my yellow dog.
JANUARY 10
My is like a .
I couldn’t think
of a simile.
Brain broken.
Can’t even think of a name
for the bouncing black kitten
that’s how broken my brain is.
I call her Kitty and Mooshie
and Wiggles and Flopper
but I don’t have a real name
for her yet.
Don’t tell anyone those goofy
names I use, okay?
They are embarrassing.
JANUARY 14
“The Naming of Cats”
by Mr. T. S. Eliot
made me laugh.
Munkustrap? Bombalurina?
Jellyrum???
That Mr. T. S. Eliot
(is he alive?)
must like cats.
And do you think it is
true
that cats have their own
secret names
that only they know—
their “ineffable effable”
names?
Okay, I will unfreeze my brain
now
and write a simile
but I am warning you:
it might not be too good.
The chair in my room
is like a pleasingly plump momma.
JANUARY 17
Go on?
Tell why that chair
is like a pleasingly plump momma?
Hmmmm.
The chair in my room
is like a pleasingly plump momma
big and squishy
with stuffing poking out.
It is over there in the corner
sitting quietly
silently
waiting for me
to come and jump
in her lap
and bring
a book or two
or a blanket
when I’m sick.
That plump momma chair
just sits there
waiting for me
and while she waits
she looks a little lonely
to tell you the truth.
She used to have a dog
to jump into her lap
when I wasn’t home
but all that is left
of my good yellow dog
are pieces of his fur
stuck here and there.
And now there is a kitten
but the kitten doesn’t like
the yellow chair
half as much
as she likes
my pillow.
JANUARY 24
After tremendous tugging
at my broken brain
I finally dug up a metaphor.
It’s about the kitten
(who now has a name:
Skitter McKitter
because that’s what she does
skitter here
skitter there
skitter every-every-where).
Ready? For the metaphor?
THE BLACK KITTEN
The black kitten
is a poet
L E A P I N G
from
line
to
sometimes runningrapidly
sometimes s o o t h i n g s l o w l y
here and there
up
and
down
d
o UP
w UP
n UP
and
in a silent steady rhythm
exploring
all
the
tiny
pieces
of
the
world.
JANUARY 31
Well, no
don’t put it on the board
because now that I read it again
it doesn’t make sense.
I know what I was trying to say
But I didn’t get it right.
The kitten is a poet
it’s something I feel
but I can’t get it into words.
A good poet would be able
to paint, with words,
things that you can feel
but don’t know how to say.
It’s sort of like when
my mother
puts one hand on my back
and one hand on my chest
to hear me laughing
or to feel me laughing
because
then she understands
what my laughing
sounds like and feels like.
She can see me laugh
and she can sign the word for
laugh
but she cannot hear the laugh.
Yesterday, she put one hand
on Skitter’s back
and one hand on her stomach
so she could hear the purr.
I cannot explain a purr
just like I cannot explain
