It's Still Life

Maybe Later (Or Curses for Neighbours)

Part One: The Invasion
The cat sits on the windowsill,
tail rigid,
ears flat,
watching the moving van
disgorge strangers into his territory …
the house that was once his,
before the vowel-less traitors
fled to Bwlchgwyn, Wales,
thinking he wouldn’t find them.

“Fools,” he mutters.
“I am cat.
I am eternal.
I am territory.”

The Old Woman sips her tea.
“They’ve brought a dog, cat.”

He freezes.

Part Two: The Name
The new neighbours emerge:
a woman with kind eyes,
a man with a very large creature on a leash.
A dog.
A big dog.
A Cane Corso — Italian mastiff,
the size of a small pony
with the face of a philosopher
and the shoulders of a bouncer.

The cat’s tail puffs.

“That is not a dog.
That is a building
with a nose.”

The neighbour calls:
“Crymych! Come, boy!”

The cat tries to repeat the name.
His throat seizes.
He coughs. Hacks.
Produces a fur ball.

Elegantly, of course.

“Crymych,” he wheezes.
“It’s like swallowing gravel
with a Welsh accent.
No vowels.
Just consonants and menace
and phlegm.”

Part Three: The Standoff
The dog …Crymych,
ambles to the fence.
Sniffs.
Deeply.
Doggedly.

The cat stares from the windowsill,
every hair on his body vertical.

“He’s smelling me,” the cat whispers.
“Mapping.
Cataloguing my essence.
This is strip-search
with nostrils.”

The dog’s tail wags …slowly,
as if it knows something
the cat doesn’t.

“Don’t you wag at me,” the cat hisses.
“I have claws.
I have history.
I have a lawyer — the crow —
who will sue you
for emotional
and olfactory
distress.”

The dog tilts its head.
Licks the fence.

The cat gags.

Part Four: The Strategy
He turns to the Old Woman.

“We must retaliate.
Subtly.
Passive-aggressively.
Cat-appropriate.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“First: I will ignore him.
Aggressively.
Second: You will plant lavender
along the fence.
He will smell pretty
and hate himself.
Third: I will claim the upstairs window
as my observatory.
I will watch him.
Always.
Judging.
Never blinking.”

He pauses.

“And if that fails —
we move.
To Ysbyty Ystwyth.
I will learn to pronounce it.
Or die trying.
Probably the latter.”

To Be Continued … Later … Maybe.