zeborah

(because cats have four feet. You see. Ahem.)

A Battle of Legendary Grease

I have fried bacon and the beast has awoken.
One narrow gold eye has slitted open
At the scent of fried bacon wafting through the air.
Steam curls in tendrils from my three rashers of bacon,
Drawing the beast, nose twitching, from her chair,
To pad, all a-saunter, back stretching on her way
To survey my plate and the bacon thereon.
I slice into strips my plateful of bacon,
And the beast lifts one gentle, tentative paw:
One gesture describing her nonchalant interest
In one of those strips of bacon for herself.
I spear that strip, and eat, and it is good.
And in that moment the beast turns upon me
Her wide, hurt eyes, and gestures once more.
My fork returns to the bacon, and folds it,
Pink meat and golden fat in glistening stripes.
The beast reaches for it; is evaded; and sits
In grim contemplation of this untoward state.
Observing the bacon twice more travel past her,
And smelling its savoury, illicit lure,
The beast hunches lower, ears back-folded.
Her tail swings quietly side-to-side, as her eyes
Follow the fork. Four metal claws
Deftly rake the bacon up to my mouth,
And four beastly claws dart beneath them.
Faster than lightning the beast lashes out,
Dashing a strip from platter to floor.
My precious grease splattering on the floor!
My fork clatters. The beast jumps down.
Nimbly she lands outside my grasp.
In her jaw she seizes the bacon,
Tastes the salt, the oil, seared flesh —
Yet, in her rapture, still the beast sees
My second grab for her, and fiercely defends
Her prize of dust-encrusted bacon.
She will have her strip of bacon!
Battle is joined hand to claw.
Unholy yowls rend the night.
The beast too voices her displeasure
As I rip the bacon from her slathering maw,
Battered and torn. The meat looks no better.
I throw it out. The beast licks her paw.
Turning her back, she stares at the wall
While I — I finish my cold bacon in cold silence.
There are, as they say, no winners in war.