Do you ever think of sex, Bathilde?

I know you’re spayed.

I paid for it, and I am sorry

about the sloppy stitching

they must have assigned

the task to the trainee

almost gone though, the rough edge —

your belly skin and the stumpy suture work

has relaxed and anyway,

because of your eczema

you don’t like being petted much


when I scratch the fleshy fold of your abdomen,

the saggy sterilized pouch that

merges with your hind legs, you respond by

stretching out your limbs and spreading your toes

until it’s too much good stuff to handle and

show time for your alter ego

Ms. Fangs & Claws

I know you’re limited, I just thought

you might have more to tell me

I try to imagine from time to time,

what else enters the receiver section between

your ears other than the chore of shaking down

the automatic food dispenser the way you

used to harass me every morning by

sticking your paw into any exposed orifice and

swatting at my temples, maybe

I shouldn’t have bought the model with

the little window displaying all that potential