Catsitting and Caste Systems

It seemed a shame to wake him
but still I stroked his back
curled into himself
at the foot of my sour bed.
A brief, diminishing glide
of the right paw
was all that it inspired
while the rain continued downward
soaking grass in need of cutting.

His black-and-yellow eyes
barely opened as I lifted
his limp body, more fur than flesh
to the head of my bed
nearer to the pillow
on which I'd soon be drooling
in a midday dreamless nap
that the dreary day demanded.
As I positioned him under the top sheet
his head sticking out
from just behind his pointed ears
he pressed his feline foot against me
in a gentle plead for sleep.
Like a person gesturing, half-awake.
Like a reincarnation of someone long gone.
"Were you a human once, Buddy?" I whisper
towards the clump of domesticated hunter
drifting off beside me in a race to painlessness.
"Raise your right paw if you were," but there's
no motion, and I too follow suit in slumber
the two of us snoring gracefully
like champions of lazy rhythm.

When I wake he's gone, possibly to
the litter box downstairs
or his pink and empty food bowl
or another peaceful perch
unmolested by the likes of Yours Truly--
the only evidence of his presence
a warm spot next to me
on my lonesome mattress.
His undetected exit exudes prowess
unparalleled by any male creature
put on God's green Earth.
I come to the conclusion
that not only was he human once
but must've been a woman.
It's a fitting fate for both of us.
The odds and stakes are noted.

Buddy-Boy, the lover
is paying for her sins.
If it's a sign of what's to come
I can only beg for mercy:
"Please, God. Not a rat-dog.
This bark still has some bite."