A shivering scrap edges from the cat basket,
and vanishes behind the sofa.
"Poor little soul," they say,
"Perhaps a little plaice, a little milk."
"Don't startle her."
By morning she has scattered food across the kitchen.
Established a bed in the linen basket.
Removed the vegetables from the rack.
Shredded a roll of toilet paper.
Climbed the lace curtains - to their detriment.
Walked milk into the passage.
Used her box - with a vigorous displacement
of the litter.
And fallen asleep on the stove.
She wakes and beams at the first person down.
"I like it here," she signals.
"How about a game of string?"
Many thanks to the Author, who at present is unknown.
