My next door neighbour has a little black cat.
She mocks me as I sit, hungrily watching her eat.

I tried it but cat food tastes like shit.

Bet she doesn’t know the difference.
That little fucking bell. Calling my attention to her staring at me as she eats.
Why is she eating still, while I’m here fucking staring?

I tried it but it tastes like shit.

She catches lizards and birds but they’re to fast for me. She won’t share.
I couldn’t keep it down. The cat food that is.
Me starving. The flesh just falling off my bones, my body consuming itself, couldn’t eat what purports to be duck, to be venison, pate de foie gras, salmon.
That little black cat eating gourmet food while I’m slowly starving to death.
Desperately setting traps for the crows, for the little miners and the willy wag tails. Watching them eat the crumbs scattered near the basket, but too clever by half to walk underneath it.

It all tastes like shit.

a great source of protein.
Some English nobleman once suggested the poor eat them to supplement their diet of gruel and dirt.
Have you tasted the dry, powdery shit that coats a moth? Sets your fucking tongue on fire.
That vile bilious bucolic crunch as you smash through chitinous abdomen/thorax/whatever.
Even the fucking possums are too clever for me to trap. I’m running out of bait.
I think I’m starving to death.
The geckos are too rubbery and the birds too smart. The possums too fast, too vicious.
Cat food and insects taste like vomit.

But my little black cat.

She trusts me…


One thought on “Trust

  1. […] those two terms mutually exclusive? I’d've thought so…)) That story/poem is called Trust and there, at the beginning of my blog it sits, uncommented […]

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