she ate the whole thing

but i get ahead of myself. like these women pictured here, i am likely older and fatter than you, though i never wear a full, long skirt, nor a cap nor a shawl -- and rarely an apron. i do however, upon occasion, wear an apron, but i only have blue ones. my hair is not black nor white, and neither is my cat. she's not green either.

but a truism emerges nonetheless: a portly older woman has a cat. what could be truer than that? in the five and a half years we've spent together we've not always seen eye-to-eye, but we have a policy by which we stand: we always make up before we go to bed.

something has happened this weekend, though, that threatens every bit of the simpatico wavelength we have forged: ruby caught and ate a tree-rat right in front of me. (we were outside.) (though tree-rats look like big mice with a long rat-like tail, i've gotten to know them pretty well over the years; they love the bird-feeder late at night, and they'll peel and sample lemons on the tree, placing the bits of rind carefully on a nearby leaf. though there are those who shudder at the mere thought of them, they're pretty harmless.)

now ruby, like previous cats with whom i've shared a bed, has learned that birds are out-of-bounds. i understand the magnitude of sacrifice she makes for me in this, so i tread carefully with regards other possible prey. spare the butterfly, if possible, but allow the dragonfly, like that. and if she catches a mouse she's not allowed to bring it into the house. but a rat? i'm afraid we didn't have any rule for that.

the first sign that something was about to happen was her uncharacteristically rushed and clumsy leap toward the side fence and into the morning glory vines which thicken towards the ground and back she came with the rat in her mouth, as it kicked and kicked, in its wholly ineffectual attempt to run away. she didn't seem sure where to drop it, and in case that had anything to do with me, sitting there, i half-heartedly congratulated her on her catch.

she shook it several times in what appeared to be clearly an attempt to kill it, then dropped it on the cardboard port in front of my swing. it lay on its back, still kicking, and breathing hard. i could see its belly fill and deflate, fill and deflate. ruby played with it, but seemed more interested in dining than diddling.
and thus she began, taking the head first.

she was quite masterly and efficient, and utterly serious. soon the head was only half there, bloody and fresh. the rest went down a bite at a time, though she had to work the gristle, or the intestines -- not sure what -- till they tore. very slightly, i could hear the crackle of the bones. it didn't take much time, as i sat there unclear of my role, if there was one. ruby neither rushed nor dawdled. i wondered if she would eat the tail, which was last, but she did.

then all that was left was a very small puffy pile of swollen entrails, and one hand, er, paw, though it looked like a gloved hand that might reach for one's monocle. ruby, full and tired, crawled right into her bed and slept, even before she cleaned herself, though truthfully she had been very neat.

so who am i now? she is clearly no longer my "baby." or is she? i don't know how to treat her, though i'm struggling to stop myself from getting down on my knees and bowing down, we're not worthy, we're not worthy. my charming companion has shown her true face, and she has asked me, what does anyone really know?

I turn to ducks

DUCKS

I

FROM TROUBLES OF the world
——I turn to ducks,
Beautiful comic things
Sleeping or curled
Their heads beneath
white wings
By water cool,
Or finding
curious things
To eat in
various mucks
Beneath the pool,
Tails uppermost, or waddling
Sailor-like on the shores
Of ponds, or paddling
—Left! right! —
with fanlike feet
Which are for steady oars
When they
(white galleys) float
Each bird a boat
Rippling at will the sweet
Wide waterway . . .
When night is fallen you creep
Upstairs,
but drakes and dillies
Nest with pale water-stars,
Moonbeams and shadow bars,
And water-lilies:
Fearful too much to sleep
Since they've no locks
To click against the teeth
Of weasel and fox.
And warm beneath
Are eggs of cloudy green
Whence hungry rats and lean
Would stealthily suck
New life, but for the mien,
The bold ferocious mien
Of the mother-duck.

II

YES, DUCKS ARE valiant things
On nests of twigs and straws,
And ducks are soothy things
And lovely on the lake
When that the
sunlight draws
Thereon their pictures dim
In colours cool.
And when beneath the pool
They dabble,
and when they swim
And make their
rippling rings,
O ducks are beautiful things!

But ducks are
comical things:—
As comical as you.
Quack!
They waddle round, they do.
They eat all sorts of things,
And then they quack.
By barn and stable and stack
They wander at their will,
But if you go too near
They look at you through black
Small topaz-tinted eyes
And wish you ill.
Triangular and clear
They leave their curious track
In mud at the water's edge,
And there amid the sedge
And slime they gobble and peer
Saying “Quack! quack!”

III

WHEN GOD HAD finished the stars and whirl of coloured suns
He turned His mind from big things to fashion
little ones,
Beautiful tiny things (like daisies) He made,
and then
He made the comical ones in case
the minds of men
Should stiffen
and become
Dull, humourless
and glum:
And so forgetful
of their Maker be
As to take even themselves—
quite seriously.
Caterpillars and cats are lively and excellent puns.
All God's jokes are good—
even the practical ones!
And as for the duck, I think God must have smiled a bit
Seeing those bright eyes blink on the day he fashioned it.
And He's probably laughing still at the sound that came out of its bill.

Frederick William Harvey