Cat

I have a cat, a fat cat in fact.
In fact, so fat is my cat that when she lies flat,
Her glossy, floppy coat spreads to the edges of our bathroom mat.
(It’s not a small mat at that).

She has neither a puckish nor feline sway,
But hobbles and toddles along,
Slow-paced, small face sinking into folds of flesh.
She can’t really play.
Unless she’s reclined of course, in which case she can just about pat a paw
And claw at a piece of string,
Or anything dangly and thin,
Or hanging from the ceiling, as I sit kneeling,
Holding said string aloft.
Anything to coax movement would be an improvement
On the slothful way she spends her days,
All a haze, and lazily.
Food, then sleep, then food again, her mood always the same,
The cycle of life, a repeated refrain.

If she were human she’d be on the scales,
With face turning pale, she’d glance at the dial.
No smile, only mistrust and disgust as the arrow inches up.
No smile still as she browses through glossies,
Brimful with stick-like beauties with their honed and toned bodies.
Stomach sinking she’d be thinking, ‘Why can’t I be like that?’
So she’d eat chocolate, a lot-of-it.
She’d have developed a relationship with food,
It’d dictate her mood, and vice versa, as her mood would dictate what she consumed.
She’d curse her lack of will power,
And the day kitkats were invented,
No, she’d never be contented, nor prevented from reaching into the biscuit tin.
If she were human she’d pin all her hopes on being thin,
And her life would be a battle she’d never win.

So yes I have a cat, a cat who’s fat.
But though she’s fat, she’s happy with that,
So I applaud her, and what’s more it doesn’t matter at all
That she will always be fat and never be small.