Today I cleaned out the cabinet under the sink so my cat can kill the mouse that periodically shows its flash of fur while scuttling from the stove to the refrigerator.
I had been storing the toolbox and detergents, plaster spatulas, screwbags and Allen wrench anti-matter in the cabinet the mouse uses to portal from behind the wall to my kitchen, the pilfer labyrinth.
Y si el fucking gato, Calvino, no tiene that kind of commando ethos? Y si es muy pequeno para any deliberate weight, como un pounce sin ningun tipo de empuje?
Y si no es fast enough Calvino, or is intimidated by the vermin growl of the mouse, inaudible to us but surely a decibel affair for them?
Y si the mouse is an emissary of peace, a relative of mine or the cat's, here to deliver a message on apocryphal f.m.
Basta ya de boludeces y de entredientes postizos.
La poesia es pobre exterminador, pero la poesia es un host, a victim de circumstancias y fracasos. It is very simple: cats like to eat mice although they don't always eat them; sometimes, their teeth banter before with the mouseloam.
And they never tell you what to do with the carcass, as your cat gargles the sordid morsel abalone? They always leave that snipet past pertinent.
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