The tramp and the...

cat.

A sorry tale.

The cat was a very important puffed up

individual.

Always preening and yowling

about her lot in life.

Claws to die for, and some had. 

The lightening flash of her paw and the spit of her venom,

enough for all comers to admit defeat and

high-tail it off at speed.

South paw, north paw,

paws at dawn:
pause for thought?

Her body showed the scars of many a 

furry fight. 

Her patch was sacrosanct.

No toms entered here...

unless with her

specific invitation.

Their intentions were

vetted and cross-checked.

No extra-marital caterwauling

in the dead of night.

She was above such carrying-ons.

An alley cat made good.

All in her world was going well

until that fateful day,

when out of the corner of her

jade green cats eye,

she spied a very

moth-eaten looking excuse for

a member of the feline fraternity.

Along with the drawbridge, her hackles were raised. 

Regally she peered out surveying her defences.

Out, out, OUT!

she shrieked.

Good money was spent to

ensure her breeches were not...

well... breached.

Over the days, she got a better look 

at this thin, scraggy looking excuse for

a puss.

'You can say one thing for him, he certainly is brave!'

she thought.

But wait...

Followed hard-on, by

'Brave or just plain desperate?'

The cannon was repositioned,
the artillery lined up in readiness.
Huffilly she harrumphed and lay in wait.
Fleeting glimpses were seen as the poor beast
skiddaddled away at the merest of vibrations of her passing.

Inside her cold, hard heart, something was stirring.

'He's moth eaten, he's manky, probably mangy,
he's hungry, he's unloved, lost and
far from home!'
These thoughts bubbled up from deep
inside.

***

The tramp was like so many before him...
down on his luck,
when with spotty hankie on a stick
he spied a very commodious abode.
A long ancient hedge with many
nooks and crannies.
The garden where chilled out
blackbirds stretched their wings
to absorb the sun's rays...
A tasty snacklet if ever there was one.
Cushy billet in a green house when the
nights turn cold.
Even a shower if you trod a certain path.

George Seagull had arrived...
or so he thought!

The big green eyed catwoman had other ideas.

'It's not that I don't like cats, it's just that 
I can't commit.

It's not that I don't like cats, it's just that
I don't like what they do the the birds.

It's not that I don't like cats, it's just that
I don't like harvesting cat crap instead of carrots!

Not unreasonable is it?

Added to which I have a very elderly dog
who likes cats even less than I do!'

She hates feeling this way...
just what is a contrary cat to do?