THE CAT WHO LIKES MUSIC

As usual late night puttering,

Needing music to accompany,

You-tubed up the Messiah.

What can I say? I LOVE Handel.

Music written evenly, metrically,

Sounding like well oiled machinery

That still manages to soar heavenward

In the tight, disciplined spaces

Between every precisely chosen note;

Descants that by their very existence

Prove the necessity of the tight structure.

God came down and gave Herr Handel

A foretaste of what heavens’ choir

Must certainly sound like.

Just as the first few notes began

Someone else let me know

That he too, in his own way,

Was an honest critic of good music.

My big black Chicklet jumped up,

And started thankfully (I think) rubbing

Against my arm as I was trying to type.

Annoyed, I shooed him off,

But instead of his usual disappearing act

He sidled over a couple of feet,

Flopped on my messy work table

With a nearly ecstatic expression on his puss,

Started beating his own time to the music,

Long tail flicking like a drunken metronome.

No further work would I get done tonight,

\So I might as well write.

I should have known…..

He always comes running when I put on tunes

But Chicklet has his preferences.

He adores classical, the old masters, please,

Liturgical music, chants, traditional folk,

Especially if it has a strong, regular beat.

He will come lay, behind the printer,

On my work table, or spread out on my

Bed if that’s where we happen to be.

And he will S-T-R-E-T-C-H…..

And the more he likes the music

The further he stretches.

Beethoven makes him cover half the bed,

Tail lazily marking a beat only he hears.

I do have my guilty pleasures: give me

Some good bluegrass. Classic rock,

Or the Great American Songbook.

These cleanse my musical palate.

I rejoice in music’s many varieties,

As long as it’s not rap or metal.

But not so Chicklet. Such sacrilege

Is not to be tolerated, and any music

Beyond his picky parameters

Brings a disdainful scowl

And a quick disappearance

With skinny tail flagged high

Like a proper Victorian lady’s finger,

Tut-tutting me for my lack of musical taste.

The next time the New York Times

Is looking to hire a music critic,

I wonder if I can get them

To check the resume

Of my big black tomcat.

Chip Bergeron

-4 December 2012