I printed out a “finished” poem and left it on the chair next to my
bed desk. I left the room. When I returned, I discovered that fearless, scratches-inflicting, wild, out of control, great white shark-mouthed and terminally cute Diggory-The-Kitten had piddled on my creation, following in Cat Steps Of Lore belonging to Uncle Al and Rudy-Kkkat. It’s official: All of our cats hate my poetry. Or—love my poetry so much they piddle on it—repeatedly (thank you, Al and Rudy). Funny how no one around here ever piddles on my husband’s random paper bits—or maybe it’s that he keeps most things on the computer (wisely). Al and Rudy do piddle on my husband’s piles of workout wear should they be left in a piddling-possible place…Okay. Look. All piddling must stop!
But really—I love our little menagerie, love teaching the parakeet to say Pizza Piadino, love watching the kitten watch my son play trains as our 75lb labrador pretends he’s a lapdog (in my lap). I am laughing. Ha ha! (Zzzzzz…) Now where’s my Muse.
I think they know that they are the muses (and sometimes subjects) of your poetic output, so therefore they are piddling on your poetry to mark their very territory.