It's Still Life

The Fence Treaty
(Or: A Headbutt Heard in New Zealand)

The cat sits on the fence post,
tail like a sceptre,
looking down at Crymych,
the Cane Corso,
the Italian mastiff,
the dog who digs holes
and aspires to New Zealand.

The cat clears its throat.

“Tell you what,” he says,
in the tone of a king
offering a peasant a crumb,
“I’ll stay on my side of the fence
if you stay on yours.
Mutual respect.
Boundaries.
A non-aggression pact
with paws and dignity.”

The dog stares.

Then …slowly,
with the deliberation
of a philosopher
who has chosen violence,
Crymych lowers his great head
and headbutts the fence.

The wood groans.
The cat flinches.
The fence holds.
This time.

The cat’s tail puffs.

“…That was not a diplomatic response.
That was percussive disagreement.
That was testimony that you have no respect
for international boundaries
or my personal authority.”

Crymych headbutts the fence again.
Harder.

The cat’s claws dig into the post.

“You’re messing with the infrastructure,
you overgrown otter.
You’re weakening the barrier
between civilisation
and chaos.
I am civilisation,
by the way.
You are the chaos.”

The dog snorts,
shakes his massive head,
and stares at the cat
with a tolerantly amused
expression of a creature
who knows he could clear the fence
with one bound
but chooses not to

— because the cat is funny.

The cat reads this expression.
He hates it.

“Fine,” he hisses.
“No treaty.
Cold war.
I will glare from this post.
You will dig from that yard.
We will exist in mutual suspicion.
Also, I’m telling the crow on you.”

He leaps down,
dignity intact but frayed,
and adds over his shoulder:

“Lavender.
More lavender.
Defensive planting.
Tonight.”