It's Still Life

The Cat Claims Lindisfarne Monastery
(Or: A Feline Descent into Nordic Grandeur)

The Old Woman relaxes in her armchair,
eyes half-closed,
as Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen
swells through the room.
Gods and giants,
rhinemaidens and riddles,
a musical earthquake
of splendid and silly.

The cat sits on the rug,
ears twitching,
tail conducting the kettle drums,
and somewhere between Siegfried’s horn call
and the descent into Valhalla,
a revelation strikes him.

“Old Woman,” he shouts over the timpani,
“I am Scandinavian.
Norse.
A Viking.
It explains everything:

my name,
my love of fish,
my talent for raiding,
my natural authority over lesser creatures,
like that crow.”

The crow, on the curtain rod,
scoffs.

“You’re from Sussex,” the Old Woman adds,
“— from next door.”

“Location of birth,” the cat declares,
“is not the same as blood.
I feel the fjords calling me.
The longships.
The mead.
The glorious and wholly justified
plundering.”

He leaps onto the windowsill,
strikes a pose of heroic contemplation,
and announces:

“I hereby claim
the Lindisfarne Monastery
by deed poll.
It is mine.
I will rename it
Cat-dis-farne.
There will be a great hall.
And heated floors.
And a statue of me
holding a herring.”

The Old Woman sips her tea.
“You can’t claim a monastery, cat.
It’s already ruins.
Also, it’s in England.
You are already in England.”

“Details,” he sniffs.
“Now, I demand a Viking feast.
Proper. Authentic.
Worthy of a Norse chieftain.”

The Old Woman sighs
the sigh of someone who has learned
that arguing with a cat
is like sailing against the wind:
it’s pointless, and wet.

She goes to the kitchen.
Returns with a plate.

Rye bread.
Pickled herring.
Onion.
Thin-sliced, and vinegar-bright.

The cat stares.

“This is a sandwich.
An open-faced sandwich.
This is not a feast.
This is Scandinavian minimalism
with aggressive overtones.”

“It’s what the Vikings ate,” she says.
“They were busy.
Rowing.
Raiding.
Not making complicated sauces.”

The cat lowers his nose to the plate.
Sniffs.
Takes a delicate bite.

His eyes widen.

“…This is actually good!
The herring is courageous.
The onion is uncompromising.
The rye is… dense,
like a good secret.”

He eats the entire thing.
Licks his paw.
Sits back.

“I accept Lindisfarne.
And this sandwich.
You may build my statue later.
Bronze.
Life-sized.
With a removable hat.”