It's Still Life

The Cat Reads Proudhon
(Or: An Anarchist’s Dilemma at the Window)

The cat is sprawled across a stack of borrowed philosophy, “What Is Property” One paw rests on a particularly underlined passage:
“Property is theft!”

“Finally,” the mutters cat,
“a human who understands.”

He looks around the room:
at the cushion he’s claimed,
at the sunbeam he’s monopolised,
at the old woman he’s definitely not owned by,
and nods, satisfied.

“All property is theft.
Which means nothing is mine.
Which means nothing is hers.
Which means…
everything is up for grabs.”

A tap.tap.tap at the window.

He turns.
The crow.
Beak pressed to glass.
Eyes dark and knowing.

The cat puffs slightly.

The old woman, without looking up from chopping onions:
“Be nice, cat.
The crow is mine.”

The cat freezes.
His philosophy crumbles.

“But… property…
theft…
anarchist…”

The crow taps again,
slower this time,
deliberate as a judge’s gavel.

The cat’s tail deflates.

The crow caws …loud,
which might mean yes,
but might mean you’re an idiot.

The cat slinks toward the window,
mutters through the glass:
“This isn’t over, feathers.
The means of snacks
shall be redistributed.”

The crow just tilts its head,
unimpressed,
and waits for its apple slice.

The cat, swivelling toward the sound
of the old woman’s laughter,
whispers reverently:
“She approves of my anarchy. Long live the revolution.”

The crow, still perched
and waiting for apple, simply mutters:
“Told you she was the real power here.
Now open the window, furball.”