It's Still Life

The Welcome Gift
(Or: How to Empty a Sardine Tin with Dignity)

The cat stands at the fence,
tail high,
expression beatific,
a tin of French sardines clutched in his jaws,
empty, of course.
Carefully emptied.
Licked clean with the reverence
of a monk at prayer.

He places it delicately on the top rail,
nudges it toward the dog’s side,
and steps back, expectant.

“A welcome gift,” he announces
to the Old Woman,
“for our new neighbour.
Crymych.
The building with a nose.
Let him know that I am magnanimous.
Generous.
A cat of international
sardine diplomacy.”

The Old Woman peers over her glasses.
“The tin is empty, cat.”

“Symbolically empty,” he corrects.
“It contains my goodwill.
My respect.
My sincere hope
that he chokes on the memory
of fish he will never taste.”

The dog, Crymych,
lumbers to the fence,
sniffs the tin,
lifts his great head,
and stares at the cat.

“Enjoy,” the cat purrs.
“It’s French.
Lemony.
Philosophically complex.
You may thank me later.
With silence.
And distance.
And a profound respect
for my territory.”

The dog tilts his head,
licks the tin once,
just to be sure,
then drops it back over the fence.

It lands at the cat’s feet.
Empty.
Rejected.
A diplomatic failure.

The cat stares at it.
The Old Woman hides a smile.

“…He’s learning,” the cat murmurs.
“Annoying.
We will need escalation.
More lavender.
Fewer vowels.
Possibly a strongly worded letter.”

He stalks inside,
tail a flag of wounded pride,
and adds over his shoulder:

“Tomorrow, I leave a dead mouse
on his doorstep.
Artfully arranged.
With a bow.
Let’s see him return that.”