Feline Anthropology

You’re an old long-haired 

Maine Coon who won’t let anyone

touch you to groom you

so your scraggledy mats 

imprison your beauty.

Since you’re not taking care of yourself,

I try to cut the mats off

before you rip them off yourself

leaving you bloody, wounded.

Snips of each tangle are tedious.

You howl and writhe and hiss

as if I were branding you,

clawing your way out 

of my conciliatory lap

leaving me bloody, wounded. 

Professional groomers 

take one look at you

and turn me away

with silent shake of head.

Sedation with a vet, they advise.

The vet looks askance at me,

as if I don’t care for you.

I am embarrassed

until I hear God’s empathy: 

“Yeah, ain’t it a bitch?”