The last I saw of Emil Catt
was his tail going out the door
claiming his right to wander.
I realize I have not seen him come back,
so I pull my robe ’round me tightly,
stand at the door whistling for him,
proving he should be frozen solid by now.
Whistle, whistle, whistle.
I finally shut and lock the door,
muttering about his likely demise
as I move to the front window
to me, confused about why I grumble
as he lies on his fluffy spot in the sun on the bed
where he spends most his days.
Once more, I am the fool,
thinking him not smart enough to come in from the cold,
while he has been warm inside all along.