It's Still Life

The Weatherman Exposed
(A Feline Inquiry into Atmospheric Fraud)

The cat sits before the telly,
tail curled like suspicion
as a man in a nice jacket points at a map
covered in swirls and damp-looking arrows.

“This man,” the cat begins,
“calls himself a weatherman.
Yet the rain continues.
The wind howls like cousin Ralph,
and my patio is wet.”

The Old Woman glances up from her book.
“He predicts the weather, cat.
He doesn’t control it.”

The cat’s eyes narrow.

“Then his title is fraudulent.
If I called myself a ‘treat-man’
but never produced treats,
you’d rightly question my credentials.”

He gestures a paw at the screen.

“Look at him.
Smiling.
Hand waving.
Talking about ‘pressure systems’
and ‘Atlantic fronts’
as if those explain anything.

He pauses for effect.

“No.
It makes me hungry.
Which is worse than rain.”

A weather map flashes by,
showing more rain for days.

The cat sighs,
heavy with the weight of injustice.

“I could do his job.
I would sit there
and say:
‘It will rain.
It will always rain.
But if you bring me sardines,
I will consider predicting
a sunbeam.’”

He flops onto his side,
defeated by false advertising.

“Weatherman.
More like weather-can’t-man.
I’m available for consulting.
My rates are reasonable:
One tin per forecast.
Two if I have to be cheerful about it.