Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as a starless night
With one white mitten,
Has outdone himself.
Again.
He came and got me,
Tracked me down,
(I was repairing part
Of the Partridge Island
Dock)
And bade me follow.
Demanded, actually.
So (of course) I did.
He has yet to understand
I can not scramble
With the alacrity
His four paws
Allow.
He stood waiting
At the top of
The rough trail
And complained.
He then stood by the base
Of the Lighthouse
And complained.
He paced at the
Entrance
Of our rough little forest
And complained.
But he didn’t enter until
I stood beside him.
No complaints now.
So . . . I wondered what
I was going to find.
And – no – I would
Never have guessed.
Paw moved carefully,
But unerringly,
To a spot not far
From the water.
He stopped in front
Of a swath of tall grass.
He sat down.
The rest was up to me.
I stepped (deliberately) over him,
And peered.
In the middle of the
Swath of grass
Was the leg of a deer.
One leg.
Nothing else.
No head
No antlers
No exposed bones
No hide nor hair
(Save the tiny hairs
on this solitary leg
complete with hoof).
Paw didn’t make a sound,
But his tail twitched.
There couldn’t be
Enough meat on it
For even a cat to chew.
There are no deer on Partridge Island.
Nothing much larger than
Paw, himself.
Some hawk or osprey or eagle
Might have dropped it.
Some storm might have
Heaved it ashore from some
Hunter’s field-dressing
Of a fresh kill.
I let Paw do what he wanted.
He didn’t want much.
He did walk its whole length,
Sniffed and licked,
And once
Rubbed his face
Against it.
He paid special attention to the hoof.
He was satisfied.
I was satisfied.
The deer was
With its ancestors.
I carried it
Across the rocks
And tossed it back
Into the sea.
By the time I turned
Back to shore,
Paw was on his way
Home.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.
DE BA. UEL
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