The cat plays rough
Scratch and tooth-hole scabs on my arm attest
He talks
I reach down from my chair to pet him,
Feel him turn his head to bite
Sometimes just a touch of teeth
Saying, "I could, if I wanted"
Sometimes a love bite
Like the mother cat telling the kitten,
"Be still while I wash you"
Often, too hard
Saying, "If I weighed a hundred pounds,
You'd be my toy
My slap and tickle boy"
And when I pull away
Tooth or claw will rip skin
They're made that way
He turns his head to bite too hard
But this time, I am quicker
I catch him by the scruff
And hoist him protesting to my lap
Bundle him against his will
To ineffective soft cat fur and blazing eyes
Administer a humiliating belly rub
I'm made that way
Sufficiently dominated, I release him
He trills, stalks away
Trailed by twitching tail
Cuts oblique to charge the dog
Walking on his hind legs
Hooking right, left, right with his front
Venting on a weaker foe
He's made that way
We're made that way
