Boris - Tapa blanda

They were smart
to put a storefront
humane shelter
on the street I walked.
I was new in town.
Everybody else was used
to those cats in cages
in the windows.
They kept on walking,
trained not to glance over,
lest they lie awake
at night thinking about
that long-haired tabby
waiting
waiting
waiting.
But I hadn't been trained.
I tried not to look.
I have never been able
to go to a humane shelter.
But now
they had brought one to me.

I'd buried my last cat
two years before.
I had only dogs now.
Dogs that didn't get into
howling, spitting fights
in the middle of the night.
Dogs that didn't spray
or leave chunks of
frothy hair ball on the
carpet exactly where I
place my feet
in the morning.
I had buried my last cat.
I was a dog person now.
But they'd put a storefront
humane shelter
on the street I walked
every day.
And I was new in town.
I lasted two months.
Then I went inside,
swearing I'd get only one,
and only a girl,
and no more.
Working hard to keep
my heart together.
Cages, cages, eyes.
They can't be too sad.
Cats sleep 80 percent
of the time.
They are all right,
could be worse.
Don't look at that dog
over there.
The one storefront dog
in the cage.
You will break apart.
Not made for shelters.
Ashamed of it.
But not made for shelters.
At first I thought,
I'll choose this one,
this nervous one.
I'll choose this one,
this old battered one.
I'll choose this one,
this bright one.
Cages, cages, eyes.
And then last cage,
last cage,
there you were, Boris.
With your gray sister.
And you stood up
and stretched
and purred
and promised, promised
you would be good if
I took her, too,
because she had
kept you alive
all those days and days and days.
Three months in a cage,
Boris, with your sister,
living in the moment
with only your memories
of leaves and rooftops
and warm brown mice.
I promise, you said,
and I believed you,
and I took home
two cats-one more
than I wanted, and
a boy at that-
but you promised,
and I knew.


Copyright © 2005 by Cynthia Rylant

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