They'll absentmindedly
serve your food,
muttering to themselves
as they do
that they've more important
things to attend to,
which we know
isn't strictly true.
They'll give you a cursory
pat or two,
say 'There you are baby!
I thought you'd shot through,'
before dishing out more
of some ghastly stew
labelled 'Gourmet Royal Treat'
that is unfit to eat.
They'll give you five minutes
on Sunday at three,
while pondering
their week in review,
or wondering
what they'll order for tea:
Sundays are what they call
'Time for Me'.
Evading eye contact,
they'll stare beyond you,
fixing their gaze
on a faraway view
that you cannot
for the life of you see:
something that's neither
bird nor tree -
while you continue
eyeing them fondly,
nudging their calves
to remind them you care,
though you might just as well
smooch the leg of a chair.
Their limited vision
limits you too:
keeping you waiting,
they buy the wrong food,
then hog the whole bed
where you'd sleep snug and warm;
omitting to greet you,
they lack feline charm
and, not to mince matters,
are often plain rude...
Why do we tolerate their ways?
Will they ever know better?
Can they be trained?
We are patient,
yet there are times, I confess,
when we almost despair
of our human pets...