Cat (Photo credit: sylvia@intrigue)
What do they think of us?
These small beasts who look at us
Out of such containment,
Who love us so inexplicably?
When we pick them up,
Do they think it is alike unto
Their play with a mouse?
Are we their sisters and brothers
That they curl up
In the bend of our knees and purr?
Do they feel our hands stroking
As they do the grooming of their mothers?
Do they groom us
Because to them we are their kittens?
They are small so they sleep lightly,
Lest danger threaten.
But they trust us and let sleep overtake them.
That trust is enchanting.
Reassuring. We are indeed gods.
Their contained love is all in all.
We are not gods, we are monsters.
They should not love us.
But they do.
Gail Writing Life 
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Lovely, except why not have pictures of your darlings, Nico and Bellissima? My trio of godlings, Dory, Roxy and Felix say Hi.
I wish, but I didn’t have really pretty pictures of both of them for this poem.
Does she like the filet of beet in gravy? That may be a clue . . . . My cats also dine on the cat equivalent of the finest foods from the finest restaurant in all of Paris, while I make do with the gluten-free equivalent of KFC. Sigh. So far, neither has shown any interest in or talent for ‘domestic responsibility.’ It’s a good thing they’re beautiful and obvously (by their behavior) royalty.
My trio’s domestic responsibilities include knocking paper and plastic items around the floor, stepping on our faces to wake us up, help us in chores around the house, and demanding food and drink. They fulfill these responsibilities exceptionally well. Maybe you–and Bert–should check your contracts. You do have contracts, right?
Contracts?
Contracts outlining what their domestic responsibilities are. Knocking over papers, interrupting your reading. That sort of stuff.
After so many years, we are just getting to a place where we think we understand our cat, Anastasia. Then, again, perhaps not so much. If only she would catch a mouse (which is why we retrieved her from the Humane Society), but instead, the mice eat her food! This fact renders her useless in the domestic responsibility department. Yet, every two weeks or so, we trapse to the Safeway, down the pet aisle and buy litter and cat food…not the cheap stuff, either, as she despise the cheap stuff…but the expensive stuff, that in cat dollars is the equivalent of Beluga caviar. Because of that, we eat cube steak instead of filet. I did notice, however, on a container of cat food the unmistakeable words “filet of beef in gravy.” I was tempted, but decided to wait until we are on Social Security to give it a personal try.