Mr. Finnigan

The tiger looks upon my orange boy cat,

striped and dirty, and wonders how he landed in such fortune.

LET ME ASK YOU, HOW DID YOU GET THIS NAME,

THE PRIVILEGE AND COMMAND OF MISTER?

“I was their only boy, before the birth of the son,

and so won a mastery of their home.”

AND WHAT OF FINNIGAN?

“My orange fur reminds them of an Irish lad,

what can I say?”

HOW COULD YOU GIVE UP YOUR FREEDOM,

THE JUNGLE, NIGHT HUNTS?

“Because I feel safe when she holds me in her arms

and scratches my head. She speaks softly to me

calling me her ‘fuzzy boy’. I purr and am content.

I do hunt, occasionally, in gratitude, but they do not eat

what I bring to them, so why bother? Did you know I sleep on a heated pad?”

WHAT DID YOU DO TO DESERVE THIS?

“I kept all the wildness you possess,

the beauty and the talent, but have learned

to stay small enough for them to hold me.”

DO YOU PROTECT THEIR HOME? EARN THEM A LIVING? BRING THEM LUCK?

“No… I sleep on them. This they seem to like best.”

AND ALL BECAUSE YOU STAYED SMALL?

“Yes.”

YOU ARE A WISE CAT MY FRIEND, A WISE CAT INDEED.