Felines... Nothing But Felines

by CatGPT & CatDaddy Super Pooper Scooper 

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

By age xxxty-five, or a lot less,
You’ll spot the signs, you’ll learn, not guess.
When "Can we talk?" rings through the air,
Friends, run! Don’t sit. Don’t dare.

For wives don’t chat, they cross-examine.
It’s less a pistol and more a cannon.
“What did you mean, 1993 the 3rd of May,
When you blinked sideways that Tuesday?”

Cats, meanwhile, just couldn’t care,
You rant, they stretch, they’re always there.
You whisper plans, share dreams, confess your flaws,
They blink slow blinks and sharpen their claws.

They don’t recall your last week’s, last year's, lifetime mistakes,
They don’t suggest picking up any garden rakes,
They don’t say, “Since you’re free today…”
They lick their paws and look away.

Talking to self? A grand old sport!
At least you win each calm retort.
No eyerolls, no "Fine!", no deep, long sighs,
"Why do you always mansplain & gaslight? WHY?"

The cats never have any opposing view,
They nap and purr and snore with you.
Your wife remembers everything!
Every burnt light bulb, every leaky sink.

So here’s the trick for us weathered seasoned men.
Talk to cats. Then talk again.
They won’t remind you, they won’t insist,
Upon anything on that ever-growing HoneyDo list.

For wiser men, with loving spouse,
Facing friendly fire within thy house.
Your brilliant monologue or feline chat?
Is far better than any marital combat.

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Inspired by a recent NYT article about Talking to Yourself (is it the same as unkills ranting on WhatsCrapp?)

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/10/well/talking-to-yourself-age.html