When I hear footsteps on the roof I do not ever worry,
even though they’re rapid as though someone’s in a hurry,
there is no burglar kneeling there waiting to rob my vault.
If there are noises overhead, it is my kitty’s fault.
The loot she seeks is kibble. She cannot stand the fact
that I am so heedless and have so little tact
that I feed dogs before the cats, and yet she doesn’t dare
venture into the backyard, for canines quarter there.
The fact of my investment in the solid gate
that keeps dogs from the cats’ domain does not expiate
the sin that I have chosen to feed the doggies first.
Of all my pet decisions, she thinks this is the worst.
So from the rooftop far above where dog types cannot reach,
the girl cat feels the need to stand there daily to impeach
my decision, once again, and let me know her wishes
for soft cat food and dry cat food in their separate dishes.
And once the dogs are fed, we race—her up there, me below,
and however quickly I happen to go,
she always beats me in the race to get to the back door
where I rip one food pouch open and she meows for more.
While her brother digs into juicy tuna souffle,
grateful for just one dish of this easy prey,
she looks up accusingly from her feline crouch,
and now and then I heed her plea and yield the extra pouch.