Brando is a beautiful black and white tom cat, a former stray who decided to move in with me and is more housemate than pet. He is the gentlest cat I've ever met, and has never laid a claw on me, even when I've had to do stuff like cut out matted bits and burrs from his long, long fur. He purrs long and loud, and is always up for a cuddle. He's very, very old, with silver hairs streaking his muzzle and back and some obvious stiffness on cold mornings. But he's never voluntarily come inside. He'll lie quietly in my arms if I carry him in and sit him on the couch for a cuddle, but won't come in of his own accord.
Maybe you're thinking such a gentle old soldier deserves a quiet life inside on a cushion, and I agree, but Brando won't be in it. And, for reasons about to be revealed, I've given up encouraging him.
He's a beautiful cat in every way. Except one. Which brings me to today's poem, a limerick:
There's a cat sitting by my back door
He's lived here eighteen months or more
All his ways are delightful
save one, which is frightful:
He shits on the living room floor.
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