Hate That Cat (5 page)

This is just to say that

Skitter McKitter

has run away

And maybe Uncle Bill

would say this is not a

tragedy

but in our house

it

is

a

tragedy.

How can you go from

hating cats

to loving one cat

in particular

one black cat

one Skitter McKitter cat

who chases a brown nut

across the wood floor

and who trails balls of string

over chairs and under tables

and who falls over backwards

when she is swatting at a plant

and who leaps in your lap

and
purrrrrrrrrr
s

and who sleeps on your pillow

curled behind your head

with one paw on your ear

and who crawls under the covers

to nip at your toes

how can you love a little cat

so much

in such a

short

short

time?

Last night my mother

signed the word C-A-T

and then tapped

her heart

HARD-soft

HARD-soft

HARD-soft.

Still no Skitter McKitter.

We think she got out

when the plumber

left the door open.

I keep thinking about

Mr. Christopher Myers'

roaming cat

and the person in the poem-story

who says over and over:

where's your home, where do you go?

There is a big

emptiness

in our house

just like there was

when my dog Sky

died.

We've looked everywhere

we've called Skitter's name

we've put out bowls of milk

but the only cat who

slurps the milk

is that other black cat

that mean fat black cat

that scratched me.

I saw it creeping away

from the milk bowl

licking its chin

lazy waddling cat

flicking its proud tail.

I hate that cat.

And more bad news:

yesterday I received a postcard

from Mr. Walter Dean Myers

and on it he said that

his cat

DIED.

He said his cat was old

and had lived a

good

long

life

but that he

misses

his cat.

I know what he means.

Keep your doors

closed

so your cats do not

get

out

and if you have any

old cats

take good care of them.

Skitter McKitter:

Here
is your home.

Why did you go?

So much depends upon

a black kitten

mewing outside

your back door.

Yes, Skitter McKitter is back!

I heard scratching

and then howling

but it didn't sound like Skitter.

When I opened the door

there was the fat black cat

making a ruckus

and then I heard a

softer mewing

kitten mewing

Skitter mewing

and lying there

beside the door

was Skitter McKitter

looking thin

and bedraggled

with a gash on one ear

and a clump of fur missing

from her neck

and when I went to reach

for Skitter

the fat black cat

put a paw out

protectively

and licked Skitter's ear

and then nudged Skitter

up and into my hands

and then the fat black cat

sat there very still—

silent—

as I carried Skitter inside.

I left the door open

in case the fat black cat

wanted to come inside too

but instead the fat black cat

turned and walked away

whisking its fat black tail

whisk whisk
.

I think the fat black cat

found Skitter McKitter

and

saved her

and brought her

home.

I'm sorry I hated that cat.

When I held Skitter

in my lap

and petted her

she licked my hand

she licked it

and licked it

It tasted good to her

It tasted good

to her. It tasted

good

to

her.

She pats the package with padded paws

and pulls apart the golden gauze

with her tiny furry jaws.

Then like an acrobat she leaps

legs and ribbon in a heap

tangled round and tangled deep.

Hear the kitten with her purr,

humming purr!

What a contagious contentment

her vibrations spur!

How she hum hum hums

keeping time time time

in a sort of thrumming rhyme

To the murmurabulation of the thrums

and the hums

of her purr, purr, purr, purr,

purr, purr, purr—

of the humming and the thrumming

of her purr.

Thank you thank you thank you

for showing me all the books

of cat poems

and all the books

that tell a story

in

poems.

I never knew

a writer could do that—

tell a whole story

in

poems.

I already read the one

by Mr. Robert Cormier

(alive?)

and next

by my bed is

that dust book by

Ms. Karen Hesse

(alive?)

and underneath that one

is the Essie and Amber one

by Ms. Vera B. Williams

(alive?)

and on my bulletin board

is a list you gave me

of so many poets

whose books I can read

and also on my bulletin board

is the funny poem-picture

of the cat chair

by Mr. Chris Raschka

(alive?)

and that poem

by Mr. Lee Bennett Hopkins

(alive?)

about growing up

to

be

a

writer.

I now have

a treasure of words

in

my

room.

See her hands in the air

waving here waving there!

What flickering formations

those compositions dare!

How she sing sing sings

in a swish and a bound

bringing sound sound sound

To the silence of the air

to the silentabulation of the hush

and the hums

of the air, air, air, air,

air, air, air—

of the humming and the hushing

of the air.

It was grandilicious

finding pictures

of so many poets

and putting them

on the wall in our classroom

all those poets

looking back at us

and beside them

some of their poems

so many words

and images in our heads

and although I wish

they were all alive

and that Dwayne hadn't written

DEAD

next to the dead ones

their words are all still

there

waiting

for

someone

to

read

them

those ineffable effable

words

thrumming like

purrrrrr
ing

in

our

heads.

Love that cat,

like a bird loves to twitter

I said I love that cat

like a bird loves to twitter

Love to call her in the morning

love to call her

“Hey there, Skitter McKitter!”

The fat black cat

has been coming to our back door

Moirrrr
?

she says

as if asking a question

I pour milk in the bowl

and the fat black cat

slurp slurps

and then sits back

staring at me

her tail slapping slowly

on the ground

shisk shisk

Moirrrr
?

Skitter

skitters up

and leaps forward

her front paws

occasionally landing

in the bowl

and

the fat black cat

licks the top

of Skitter's head

and then turns

and saunters away

apparently

satisfied.

Thank you for saying

more nice things

about me

to my parents

last night

when we read our poems

at school.

My mother doesn't usually

come to these things

because she can't hear

what's going on

but when you said

I could sign for her

this is what she

said (signed) to me:

“I love that Miss Stretchberry.”

And although I was embarrassed

to stand up in front of everyone

and sign all those words

for my mother—

too many eyes on me—

and it was very hard

to keep up with everyone

speaking so fast—

when I saw my mother's face

it felt good to me

it felt good to me

it felt good

to

me.

I will listen

for you

I will hear

all the sounds

in the world

all the

delicious

ineffable

effable

sounds

all the

thrumming

and

humming

and

tintinnabulating

sounds

I will hear

all the sounds

in the

world

and I will write them down

so you

can

hear

them

too.