The wattle birds are nesting
in our neighbour’s garden.
I know, because Mr. Wattle
has been terrorising our cat.
The cat does not know, or
understand the reason for
the plummeting dives that
aim and repeat, relentless
at his sleepy, feline head.
He is a dullard cat, slow
of limb and reason. Small threat
to any chicks. But in the ideology
of bird, he is Enemy; foul progeny
of a bloodstained history,
and the bird, in its small
brain, knows one thing only:
The blasphemy of cat must
be destroyed. So with dedicated
zeal, the feathered terrorist
wears himself witless harrying
our fat cat. Hunger and fatigue
have no consequence; his
sacrificial duty all-consuming.
He bonds himself to death, a
winged prayer of destruction, as
the hapless moggy duckshis head in puzzlement.
A couple of springs ago, a wattle bird dedicated himself to eliminating our cat. The idealistic zeal he displayed was remarkable. On a couple of occasions, he even entered the house, chasing the cat. It struck me then, as a good subject for a poem, but I didn't actually write it down until now.