There were feathers on the rug this morning
       when I came down at first light.
Your long rough tongue lapped the saucer
       and you swaggered across the room
       to perch on your stool
       by the embers of the fire.
There's no point in offering you Kitty Gourmet
       or that tin of sardines
       I've saved as a treat.
And I wasn't very pleased about the feathers.
       The starlings in the orchard
       had only just finished their nest.
But I know it's in your nature to kill birds,
       I just hope you don't torture them long first.
And oh how I wish that you could tell me
       if I crept in close to your stool beside the fire
       would you roll onto your back
       open your legs and purr
       if I tickled your soft furry tummy?
Or would your ears go back
       and your tail lash the air
       as your claws draw blood?