Chumly and Me

By Marian Glaser © April, 2000

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I have to wire my Christmas tree to the ceiling or Chumly will climb it

and yowl as it comes crashing down fully decorated,

concerned he might bend a whisker or injure an ear.

Last summer his meows came from the roof.

My acrobatic climbing got him down.

I said, “Cholmondolly, that was bad.”

Five minutes later he went up again.

I’ve found squirrel tails on my lawn and

his flea collar high in a fir tree.

I’ve paid enormous vet fees.

He uses my sofa to sharpen his claws and

prefers sitting in my favourite chair.

He bites me when disapproving of his food.

If it’s canned he wants dry and when dry, canned.

He’s often pushed me to wanting to commit caticide

when his flying leaps help to break something I treasure.

Then he curls comfortably on my lap,

purring until my anger goes and I melt with affection.

Often he sits quietly with me and

meows softly with seeming concern when I’m down.

I’ve even excused his slow killing of a mouse

under my sleep-heavy eyes and his walking on my keyboard and piano keys.

His warm presence has lightened many lonely nights even

if they ended at daybreak

with paws patting my face and meows demanding food.

When he’s out he wants to come in and when in, out.

There are times he drives me crazy but

I love him.