Sunday, October 12, 2008

LAPCPADPOUB Day: The ballad of Pushkin's ear

This post was inspired by Happy Mouffetard (or Mouffe as I see she is sometimes now calling herself, which is a jolly good idea, quite frankly, because Happy Mouffetard is a bit of a mouthful - or should that be a handful? - to type out, and Mouffe is a lovely, soft, squishy sort of name).
Where was I? Oh yes; anyway, Happy Mouffetard, or Mouffe, had the fabulous idea of hosting a bloggers' day entitled Let's All Post Cat Photos And Dire Poetry On Our Blogs Day, or LAPCPADPOUB Day for short (not that it is very short, but never mind). That day is today, 12 October.
The true genius of this scheme is that you can make of it what you will. If one is a hater of Cat Nutters (as James Alexander-Sinclair vows and declares he is not), one can simply pull the duvet over one's head and ignore the whole thing. If one is an admirer of Kewt Kitties (as JA-S puts it so sweetly), one can jump right in and wallow in 24 hours of feline felicity. And if one is a bit embarrassed about expressing one's affection for one's cat, and utterly incapable of writing decent poetry, one can simply pretend that the whole thing is an ironic wheeze designed to amuse the garden blogging community (and in particular HM and VP).
I have to confess, I would have fallen into this last category if it were not for the fact that my cat, Pushkin, managed to shred part of his ear during an altercation with some unknown creature this week. The injury required a trip to the vet and left me feeling rather disenchanted with the joy of pets. I attribute this to the lingering aroma of cat urine in my car. So here's a picture of the little toerag, and a rather grumpy poem which I hope makes up in embittered sincerity for whatever it lacks in artistic merit. As you can see, the ear looks a lot better already.

The ballad of Pushkin’s ear
Respectfully dedicated to JA-S in the hope that it might prove suitably stomach-turning

Pus oozes from a wound, and there's a stink.
The cat is rather listless, and I think
Something’s wrong here.
There’s been a fight, and my cat’s come off worst.
As usual, it’s my son who spots it first,
A septic ear.
I call the vet and grab the hated basket
Line it with paper, an insulated casket
in which to pee
The cat yowls all the way along the street
Passers-by turn round to hear him bleat
Eyes accuse me.
A large injection, then a larger bill,
Instructions, and an even larger pill
To give each day
Pills must be crushed and hidden in the food
So cat won’t spurn the the stuff that does him good
And rot away.
We journey home: the basket’s soaked with wee
Why do these things keep happening to me?
(Good question, that.)
Once through the door, Push takes his pee-stained self
And jumps up on a nice clean kitchen shelf
That bloody cat