Death of a Cat

The little cat we brought from Darlinghurst
crying all the way in the back seat of the car
shivered once and died this Sunday morning
after the coldest night of the year.

She who was once a skilful mouser
who climbed the magnolia bush
hunting the nestling bulbuls
and came in
with bloody feathers spilling from her jaws
a kitten with rickets a foraging bundle
of fur dumped in Wisdom Lane
she fought fierce tomcats in territorial battles
at 8 am stretched out in front of the heater
she trembled and gave up the ghost

she will not come this way again
scratching at the front door at midnight
we will bury her
under the Japanese maple where she liked
to lie in the shade in summer

watchful in the tall grass while the cabbage moths
played tag teasing around her head
but sometimes I still see her
limping up from the orchard
her yellow eyes ablaze absorbing sunlight
her fur alight with the dying fires
of her nine lives.

Dorothy Hewett


I trawl through a lot of territory during the day, and usually have a tough time recalling more than the faint outlines of what I’ve read, which is frustrating.   This blog is more for me than anyone else, to be used as offline storage and to answer the perpetual “where the hell did I see that one thing last week” questions.

I'm always home. I'm uncool.

I hope to be noisy, opinionated, honest, and probably somewhat boring.    Nasty, brutish, and short – that’s me.  Well, except for the short part.