My dear friend and neighbour (now there are two words I thought I'd never string together) Kathy gave me a book of cat haiku for Christmas. For those of you unfamiliar with haiku, they are Japanese poems with very strict guidelines (exactly seventeen syllables in three lines of five, seven and five) which are deceptively simple looking but with very deep souls.
Think of each one as a tiny, perfect, handmade chocolate truffle in a silk lined box from one of those shops staffed with Parisians in black aprons who treat everyone as though they're interrupting them from something très importante but you keep going back because the baked goods are so imcomparably fresh and delicious, especially the warm, flaky croissants au chocolat which you think you get away with eating "what? me? nothing, I was just out getting milk" forgetting all the flaky crumbs of fresh pastry that litter your sweater front....
Boris the would-be poet, if he ever felt so inclined.
My name is Boris.
Yes, you may pet me. Not there,
No, not there. Stop it.
Got any pet haiku in you? Give 'er your best shot.