Way back in the late 60's/early 70's, my mom had a copy of this poem and we loved it. I don't know who the author is, and I tried to find out on the Internet but no luck. If anybody knows, I'd love to know too.
For I love my cat with my heart.
For I love my cat beyond all reason.
For he not even a cat. He is love in his fur.
For he is not even a good cat.
For when he is hungry he rips open the trash bags
And spread his tins all around
So all may know his hunger and feed him.
For he is willful. For when his box is not changed
He squats on the furniture in threatening posture.
For it is said he has no soul at all and cannot love me
For he has no understanding, yet when I am sick
He lies with me and will not drive off no matter the menace;
For he lies on my chest and puffs his breath into my nose
As if it would help me.
For when I wake up in a chill his hot paw rests on my arm
Where it makes a warm circle;
For after surgeries he finds out the wound and would knead upon it
As if driving it out of the body;
For he loves his mother, although it is said he should not
Yet he goes to her daily for washings;
For he never will swat her, nor will he hiss after,
For he waits for her to eat up her dinner.
For he also waits for his father. For he is not even normal.
For he lies in the sun like a rug and leaps from his sleep
And chases the stairs. For he pops out from chairs without any reason;
For he starts into the air and claps his front paws together;
For he jumps up the wall and slides down the light with no explanation;
For his forehead is wide and has clouds behind it;
For his eyes are so round they are God's perfect circles;
For his cheeks are so puffy they seem to have wings;
For he is the gray color of God's clouds before thought of the sky and the land;
For his eyes are the green color of the sea when God's ships are happy;
For his eyes are two stars which can move in the dark;
For he is beautiful, yet he has no vanity and does not pause before mirrors
(Yet once he did when he still was a child);
For he sits on the window and taps on the glass
To say boundaries are arbitrary;
For he does not have nine lives but he lives his one well;
For although he will hide from the guests
He will come forth like a soldier to do battle with a bug;
For he knows that I hate them.
For he enters the tunnels of paper bags
And resurrects himself with splits and crackles of fire;
For he jumps straight into the air, disproving gravity;
For he falls on his feet whenever I drop him,
For though he walks away huffily, still he comes back in forgiveness.
For his heart beats faster than the heart of a human;
For he uses himself up fast in our service;
For he sits at the window dreaming of birds in his teeth,
Yet he forgives us his captivity.
For he purrs constantly, so we may know he is ticking;
For although he cannot kiss, yet he tries, licking his own lips
For when he sits upon you and looks on your face,
His own is quiet and serious;
For he endures the screams of small children,
Which is hard since he is even smaller himself.
For he lies on a green rug like a calf in the field.
For he lies on his back like his old enemy, the dog.
For there a white triangle shows itself between his front paws;
For when he is there, you are there with him;
For he always forgives;
For he lives the life that you give him and still walks all stately,
For he is loyal to his master, no matter who feeds him,
Yet this is contrary to what is reported.
For he always is cheerful unless he is dying;
For he sleeps in small boxes like Everyman
And does not mind it.
For he is love, and may go in his faith.
