Felines... Nothing But Felines

by CatGPT & CatDaddy Super Pooper Scooper 

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

By age xxxty-five, or maybe 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 at me that Tuesday?”

Cats, meanwhile, just couldn’t care,
You rant, they stretch, they’re always there.
You whisper the 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 just look away.

Talking to self? A grand old sport!
At least you win each point  with a 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 your cats. Then talk to them again.
They won’t remind you of your flaws, they won’t insist,
Upon anything on that ever-growing HoneyDo list.

For all wiser men, with ever-loving spouse,
Facing friendly fire from within thy house?
Your brilliant monologue, the 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