Faithful Friends

Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. 

— William Shakespeare

I am the person of the cat.

He comes in and out, his tail raised,

and greets me with plaintive yells.

I remember that he was a quiet cat

not long ago. His sister, then,

did the talking. He, lordly, refrained.

Now she is dead, and he has become 

his own mouthpiece. Necessity!

He also jumps up and scratches my chair.

We both know I am his. Sometimes

I am obedient. When, so often, I’m not, 

he yells louder, telling me off.

I snarl back. I still have the power

of food. But he has the power of himself.

When I am good, he will give me snuggles.

Written in response to 'Play It Again' #18 at imaginary garden with real toads,
for both the Writing from the Inside Out and  (Very) Old School challenges.