Dr. Choumayyil's Cat

The white cat, my friends, the cat of our master, the eminent savant,
is white as cotton from freshly opened boles, and soft as silk.
She is deaf . . . except to the boiling of pots,
and dumb . . . except at mealtimes.
She can crouch like a lion, or be as innocent as an antelope.
What is so fine to watch as her swift movements
when she has spied a bird in the branches;
but when she has lost interest, because she cannot reach it,
the gleam in her pupils dies out, as if her heart were broken.
She saunters arrogantly among the doctor’s guests . . .
One might call her a small only child.
But it’s not the guests that she cares about;
what she likes is her dinner, appetizing and plenty of it!
And when our master comes home and sends word to the cook,
she jumps in his lap and from that throne rules everything as it she were an emir!
He presses her tenderly to his breast
and often will even carry her off to bed in his arms.
“My daughter,” he calls her, and she, if she could, would call him “Papa.”
And sometimes she makes herself a pleasant bed for a nap
right on the pages of his Origin of Species.
With a smile he indulges her, and she lies there basking in happiness.
As for us, if we dared to disturb her,
We’d get a roar from him for our pains.