Charlie . . .
"Now this one", said the lady at the cats' home,
"Was found on the tip, in a sealed box, bought in yesterday.
He's small for his age and bites holes in his fur;
You can see he's in a bad way.
We thought perhaps he's about twelve weeks,
But the vet says he's certainly more.
Probably nearer eight or nine months;
It's difficult to be sure."
So we brought him home.
He lay in stiff terror as we
Tried to clean his fur, comb
And cut the tangles free.
He would not be left alone;
Would sleep in fitful naps,
Refusing his bed,
Seeking instead
To settle on warm laps.
Our mealtimes became quite fraught.
He seemed to have no idea
Of how a cat ought
To behave, leaping up
At the table,
Grabbing anything available,
Running off to hide and scoff,
Pouncing again to carry off
His loot of cheese or bread or cake.
So who is this contented cat
Who sits upon the chair,
Watching politely as we eat
With a feigned, disinterested stare?
Who is this handsome cat
With gleaming black fur and white socks?
This is Charlie from the cats' home
Who was left to die in a box.
Anon.