Beetroot & I #13

May 11, 2011

First of all, my apologies for not writing for so long. As you will soon read, it has been a hectic couple of weeks. Since I spoke to you last, when I received some valuable advice from the gas man, I have been trying to get a grip on my life. I have tried to restore some level of normality to my existence. I reconnected with Christine, my short term, one-legged Belgian girlfriend and I have set boundaries for Beetroot. I told him that he was my cat and that was that. For a little while, everything seemed to be going great. This, however, did not last…

Wednesday, May 11th

He just stared at me. If he was breathing, he was doing it silently. All I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall. He must have been breathing though. Obviously. I’m just trying to create atmosphere here, but he WAS a quiet breather. Anyway, he clicked on his Dictaphone. “Just tell me what happened from the start.”

I cleared my throat and introduced myself. “My name is Shane Langan. Writer, storyteller, raconteur, author, novelist, teller of tales, yarn spinner…”
The Lawyer shook his head and banged the metal table with his fist. “SHANE! Please.”

I apologised and cleared my throat. “For the record, the following is the account of the last Saturday night, the events that have led to me being here. And would like to do so… in the form of an epic poem, as is my constitutional right.” He raised his eyes to heaven but I continued on. “It’s a poem about a cat… who’s a dick-head. And its called ‘The Cat’ – I hope you find it both informative and entertaining.” I settled myself, took a gulp of water and began. In my mind I rose a haunting cinematic score as I recited. You might want to do the same as you read. “As I set an excited plate. This, as I waited for my date – Careful not to tread ‘pon unseen pile my cat had shat upon the floor. Lest this point it needs recapping, endlessly it seems he’s crapping, my figurative face it seems he’s slapping – crapping on my kitchen floor. ‘Is this my life’s lot?’ I ponder? Picking crap up off the floor? – But then a knock upon my door. Pausing cooly as I should, more softly knocks on solid wood, check my hair in grubby mirror as I walk towards the door – A tender greeting leaves me smitten – take winter coat from hands frostbitten. One moment later she steps in kitten – Kitten shit right near the door! ‘Give me your shoe’ I awkward bid – Upon hot water I then pour. And leave to dry, next to the door. At dinner, stony quiet blooms, we dance round elephant in room. Trunkless bitter kitten watching, squatting POOING on the kitchen floor – without an appetite between us, I lamely joke – ‘ha, who could blame us?’ Beholding sight of my cat’s anus, doing laps across the kitchen floor. The girl starts to make excuses, excuses that will take her from my door. But now she lies – upon my floor. The kitten took her from behind, she had no chance, her side was blind, I wish I could say that he was kind as he mauled her on the floor – When she was dead, he resumed pooing, knowing well what he was doing, my face now grey with sickness brewing, brewing with night of mixed up gore. I turned to cat for explanation, a reason for this rotten core. He looked at me… And just shat on the floor.” I took another gulp of water and waited for the Lawyer to speak. He shook his head ever so slightly and finally spoke.

“That’s ‘The Raven’, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s ‘The Cat’” I replied curtly. He could sense my feelings of hurt.
“Sorry. So… what you’re saying is that your cat killed Miss Claes?”
“Did you know that Poe based the structure of ‘The Raven’ on Elizabeth Barrett’s poem ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship’? Did you know that?”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
“So, your cat killed Miss Claes?”
“Were you not listening to the poem?”
“Perhaps we should pick this up again tomorrow.” He sighed deeply, packed up his files and left.



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