Out Cattin’
By: Ravyne Hawke
Tags: Cats, Fantasy, Prose Poem, Poetry, Fiction

You say we have to be there, that our attendance is important.



I nod my agreement, but then you say not like this, and I say like how and you start mumbling your voodoo and poof! I start growing fur from head to toe, whiskers sprout from my cheeks, my vision becomes grey. I swish my tail? When did that get there? And suddenly I have an urge to lick myself.



You prance up and down the street, your head held high in arrogance. Why are you a Siamese? Your blue eyes flicker red in the sunlight, your sleek coat shimmers in silver shadows. Your tail curls up and down — question mark, exclamation point, comma, exclamation point, question mark. I watch as long as I can, turn my head and gaze into the shop’s window. My own coat is a variance of blue-black hues; my body is puffed out in fur, unruly strands flung aimlessly all over me. I’m a damn Persian; all I have to look forward to are hairballs.



After we admire ourselves over and over again, we finally set off on our mission. You walk just slightly ahead of me because the bad cats know how mean you get when crossed. I seem not to mind? Me, a Persian, relying on you? You have that take charge air about you, no one can slip anything by you, and I’ve tried, but to no avail. We wander down an alley, you say some secret mumbo-jumbo and a door opens up in the brick wall.



It’s a whole new world in here. All of us as tall as any humans walking the streets, but we have fur and are drinking milk on the rocks and eating sardines from Belgium. Didn’t know they imported the stuff. I glance into a corner and an emerging black form nearly knocks me down. She apologizes and rubs her shoulder against mine. When she moves to my ass, you hiss at her, your razor-sharp teeth glisten, and you show her your freshly sharpened nails. Why are you defensive around her? Jealousy becomes you.



I’m sitting on a plush velvet pillow, staring at shadows on the walls, just waiting for one to move. I keep getting these urges to leap at things. I’m still not sure why we are here nor why we’ve changed forms.



In a corner, a pipe dangling from his mouth, a yellow tabby is getting high on nip. The smell reaches me and I want to suddenly run through the room, jump on the curtains, and chase males from the punch bowl. They never want to give up the nipple.



You disappear for awhile, but I don’t mind because I’m still stoned on the nip and have curled back up on my velvet pillow. The black cat looks more appealing in my euphoric state. Oh well. Should I clean myself or take a nap or what? I can’t quite decide.



When you return, you say it’s time to leave. Your anger shows in your eyes, fireballs. Hell, I’m not even sure why I had to come.



Outside, we are crossing the road and a few blocks down, another Persian is walking toward us. I notice how refined and unmated her fur is. I want that. Just then a whoosh of wind fluffs her up from head to toe. She tries to walk on, that wind ruffling her up, and you know how we Persians hate to be ruffled. Her tail is between her knees, the fur on her hind legs is swooshing upward — such nice hind legs — and she is trying to keep some fur down there. I continue watching her — each step is a balancing act, fur flying here and yonder, that tail is up her thighs, down her thighs. She looks like a tumbling weed drifting down the road and I want to drift with her.



I look at you, your eyes still glowing red in the moonlight, and I swear if we were humans again, you’d be laughing.

©1998 Lori Carlson. All Rights Reserved.