Cats (Out West)

I wanted to share a narrative poem I wrote a few years ago. It’s a western, except all the human roles are now given to anthropomorphized cats! Ridiculous? Definitely! But that’s okay, I think. I wanted to include this poem in my first book of verse, but I ended up leaving it out…and I’m kind of glad I did, because I’m beginning to work on my second novel in prose: which I’ve decided to write with this cat western serving as the inspiration! The final work will be different, and far more fleshed out given the far greater length, but I wanted to share this here first! It’s called Cats (Out West), and I hope that if you read it that it serves to make you laugh and have fun 🙂

Cats (Out West)

The Stage

The stage was this: a half-hid moon 
Alit the sleepy town.
Apart from one aroused saloon
A silence settled ‘round. 

Nothing stirred inside the broad store;
No goods sold or traded:
In the sheriff’s honest office
Darkness then pervaded.

Where the gallows waited eager
For some lawless craven,
Only night stood at attention;
Blackness like a raven.

Tumbleweeds with gloomtime vision 
Rode the wind on saddles;
Saddles made of root and thistle, 
None of which could straddle. 

Yes, wild was this western ground;
Just ask the Cacti Council!
Not a day went by they weren’t 
Scrutinizing scoundrels.

As the stage, so very western,
Set a bit more concrete,
Something fair and music-born
Spilled out onto the street. 

Through the swinging, shuttered doors
Which led to the saloon,
The culprit sound appeared a piano
Slightly out of tune.

Wooden chairs and wooden benches,
Wooden stairs and wooden walls:
Lots of wood, essentially, 
Made up the well-lit hall.

Back behind the bar were barrels
Home to drink; the potent kind:
No, this den wasn’t for the meek
Nor for the right-refined.

This, my friends, was what they called
The wild, madcap west! 
Thus the stage was duly set,
But what about the rest? 


The Players

The street, perhaps, was statue-still,
But not so the saloon!
A raucous, rowdy, roughneck bunch 
Throughout the bar were strewn.

These were not the sort to trim
Their whiskers everyday;
None of these ferocious folk
Decorum would obey.

Manning where the drinks were doled out
Was the grizzled barkeep:
Allen Manxon; short haired chap
Without a tail to sweep.

Luckily for him, he had
The trusty Benny Birman:
Birman’s tail was long and full 
To sweep where so determined.

Manxon drove the daily duties,
Birman was logistics;
Each played off the other, pairing 
Key characteristics.

One whose name had not been given
Leaned against a side wall:
Persian, with a plain, brimmed hat,
Draped in a manly shawl.

At the piano, paws a-ticklin’,
Bobtail Fisher set a fire:
Blazing melodies erupted,
Fisher, their supplier.

Seated playing Texas hold ‘em
Was a gang of some repute:
Mean Jack and the burmese baddies,
Each engaged in some dispute.

Finally, and well worth noting;
Like a lion crouched in grass
The sheriff, Ragdoll Walker, watched:
His badge of polished brass.

Characters, the bunch of them,
This writer can attest:
Such, however, was the standard
In the wild west.

With a lot like this, there would be
Conflict, to be certain:
We have our stage, the players set,
Which only leaves the curtain.


Act One

“Sheriff Walker,” said the barkeep,
"Nice to have you here, sir.
Something in the air, just now,
Which prickles at my fur." 

Ragdoll Walker knew the feeling
Manxon mentioned, surely:
He hadn’t earned his badge, however, 
Acting prematurely.

“Yeah," said Walker, “just be mindful;
Keep your wits in sync.
And if it’s not a problem, Al,
I might just need a drink." 

“Sure," said Manxon, “pick your poison;
One percent or two, perhaps?"
Ragdoll shook his head, “tonight
It’s best not to relax.”

Offering a knowing nod, 
Ol’ Allen Manxon found a cask:
“Almond, then," he said, the spigot
More than up to Manxon’s task.

"Bobtail sure is in rare form,
The lad can’t keep away:
I almost reckon he’d be right there 
Without any pay." 

Ragdoll gave a huffed agreement,
Taking in his paws the drink:
Not his first choice, but with almond
Milk, at least, he still could think.

“Barman," came a voice which danger
Veiled beneath a laugh,
"Heavy whipping cream for all
My boys; your finest draft." 

Heaps of miscreants had traveled 
Through this town and thoroughfare:
Many wanted, of whom Walker
Took to task without a care.

Now, Mean Jack didn’t fit this bill,
His record held as gleaming.
Despite his and his gang’s misdeeds,
They dodged the lawman’s screening.

Dark of coat with eyes of yellow,
Jack leaned up against the bar:
“Sheriff," said the hulking figure 
Lighting up a cheap cigar.

“Jack," said Ragdoll, eyes like winter
Meeting firm the big brute’s gaze:
Nearby, Bobtail’s practiced paws
Still nimbly capered, keys ablaze.

“Ya know," Jack said, “it’s funny,
This position that we’re in:
You can’t make a move on me
Until the fun begins.”

Walker’s paw went for his holster,
Hipside where his sidearm rested;
Jack just smiled, ease of manner,
Puffing as he tested.

"Now, now, Sheriff, would you really
Draw on a civilian?
That might force my hand to painting
This tavern vermilion.”

As the colt becomes a stallion 
As a filly turns a mare,
So, the sheriff thought, must he
Gird up and not despair.

“Jack," said Ragdoll, “we both know
That I can’t handle all of you:
If I draw however, friend,
Your forehead’s gettin’ two." 

Mock amazement shown on Jack’s face,
Lion’s paws raised to the sky:
"Sheriff, we’re but humble townsfolk;
What, pray tell, do you imply?”

Ragdoll went to speak, but movement 
Flickered in his vision;
On the stairs, descending, was
Jack’s sordid acquisition.

Benny Birman, bound and gagged
And led by two of Mean Jack’s thugs
Wore panicked eyes, and Ragdoll knew
The other shoe had reached the rug.


Act Two 

Fifty-two of ivory
And thirty-six of black:
Bobtail Fisher knew the piano 
Upside down and back.

Often so enrapt in playing 
Was the virtuoso,
That if there were a happening
He likely wouldn’t know so.

And so it was, when Jack had played
The hand his sleeve concealed,
Bobtail’s vision, paws, and heart
Trained on the piano’s field.

Or, at least, his lacking insight
Stayed that way until
A bullet fired near his head
Brought Bobtail to a still.

“Something different, then?" asked Fisher,
Paws preparing keys to tread:
Mean Jack, gun still smoking, stated,
"Next one’s in your head.”

Fast as Jack had drawn on Fisher,
Ragdoll’s piece was Burmese bound:
“Even think about that, Jack; 
I’ll put you in the ground.”

Yellow eyes tinged dark with red,
Jack weighed his steel in hand
Then dropped it back into its case
As if by reprimand.

“Alright, Walker, alright; let’s just 
Take a little pause, here:
All we want’s the evening’s take,
And then we’ll disappear.”

Bobtail, seeing the saloon
Almost with eyes afresh,
Knew right away and well enough
How dire this duress:

The baddies numbered six or so
Upon the tavern’s floor,
Then two more on the bottom stair
Meant two foul players more.

Whether dice or whether cards
Or whether facing baddie squads,
An adage in the west was this:
It paid to play the odds.

“Al," said Walker, cold as marble,
Eyes affixed on Mean Jack;
"Aye,” the weathered barkeep said,
“I keep it in the back.”

Manxon stepped away and vanished,
Gone to fetch the evening’s yield.
Bobtail, meanwhile, fought his urge 
To frolic in the piano’s field.

Minutes passed then Allen Manxon 
Reappeared, a burlap bag
He toted which, though not quite full,
Still weighed enough to sag.

Grinning like the cheshire cat,
Mean Jack took hold his cache
Then motioned at his gang of goons
To make their plotted dash.

All eight baddies deftly hastened
Toward the doors; guns ready:
With them went poor Benny Birman,
Shaken and unsteady.

"Take the money, Jack,” said Ragdoll,
As his eyes grew colder still;
"But try and leave with Birman
And much blood will surely spill.”

“Just insurance, sheriff,” Jack said, 
"Till we reach the steeds.
Alternatively, you could act:
But all your friends would bleed." 

Manxon looked at Birman, who 
Was saying something muffled,
Then said to Ragdoll, “maybe, lad,
It’s best on this to buckle.”

Time stood like a sharpened cactus;
Still and deadly, tall and green,
Till Walker, ceding, said to Jack,
“The last of me you haven’t seen.”

Laughing like a fool, Mean Jack
Turned toward the double doors,
And as he did another - bang - 
Rang like a charge to war.

Inches from his hand, and through
The apex of the sack,
The bullet caused the cash to spill
Out at the feet of Jack.

From a corner, nearly hidden
By the wall of the saloon,
Our final player, Persian born, 
Stood as if at high noon.


Interlude: A Public Service 
Announcement from the Cacti Council

Greetings from the Cacti Council
And all salutations!
We, the council, value highly 
Proper education.

Many travelers of late
Have journeyed here out west;
A thing which has our full support!
We pray this point is stressed. 

However, as with all of life,
Some problems have arisen:
Our humble cacti hope is that
You’ll hear our sound position.

Water is a precious resource;
On this point we all agree!
And so, we’d like to state the crux 
Of this impassioned plea:

Please stop cutting off our arms 
In search of H2O.
Please stop shooting holes straight through us
Hoping for a river’s flow.

None of this is accurate,
In fact the only thing
You’ll find in terms of water is
The tears these actions bring.

We are cacti, we’re not starfish;
Our arms will not grow again;
We’ll gladly give a leaf or two
Oh every now and then.

So please, remember that we share
This vast ocean of sand;
Different peoples, different backgrounds,
Sharing one uncommon land!

We thank you for the privilege 
Of your consideration:
It never hurts to emphasize
Heartfelt communication.

Enjoy your show and have a blast,
Just keep this thought in mind:
It’s pleasing to a cactus when
You treat us fair and kind!


Act Three

Everyone who had a sidearm 
In that fated structure
Now had barreled down another;
All was near to rupture.

All, that is, except for Manxon,
Who behind the bar
Had stowed his faithful scattershot:
A maid which wasn’t far.

“Why not take that muzzle off
Your hostage," said the Persian.
Jack, incensed, was gathering 
His wits at this incursion:

"I think I won’t,” said Jack, "but what
I do think, see, is this:
Death, for you, will shortly be
A thing no less than bliss." 

“Jack," the Persian said, now making
Quite the bold assertion,
“Was never here for anything
Except your Benny Birman." 

Something like the prior chuckle
Jack had bore resurfaced,
Though this time dripping venom which 
All but confirmed his purpose.

Mean Jack motioned at his baddie
Who in turn removed
The gag attached to Birman
(Who in no way disapproved.)




Birman, colored mostly cream
Which darkened at the nose,
Spoke soft and to the Persian,
First, now slightly more composed:

“Sorry, Cy, I didn’t mean 
To cause you so much trouble." 
Then, turning to Manxon, said,
“For you, Al, that goes double." 

"What’s this all about now, Benny?”
Said the startled Manxon.
“Money," interrupted Jack, 
"And we’re just here to thank him.”

"You’re here to drag him back across
The borderline,” the Persian said,
“To break his bones and make him wish
He hadn’t ever fled.”

“Sure, that too,” said Jack, whose laughter 
Darkly set their present scene,
“He stole from the Burmese, the dolt;
All this is just routine.”

Birman’s mettle rose at this,
His meekly manner vanished:
“You make of litters orphans 
And the lucky are left famished.

“You turn to ash the lovely 
And you trample on what’s right:
My one regret is that I don’t 
Have strength enough to fight." 

“Maybe not," said sheriff Walker,
Meeting with the Persian’s gaze,
"But me and long-hair over there
Know more than a few ways." 

‘Technically, they both are long-haired,’
Allen Manxon briefly mused;
Though clearer was the picture, now, 
Parts left him still confused.

In many ways, the scene at hand 
Was like a stick of TNT:
Deadly as a hurricane
And fragile to a great degree.

What lit the fuse, however, 
Was the unlikeliest source:
What Bobtail felt, then, was akin
To any storming force.

All at once he started playing;
Blazing melodies, they flowed!
Flowed and lit the fuse, the scene 
Could not help but explode.


Act Four 

Jack wheeled instantly on Bobtail,
Bobtail only saw his field;
Ragdoll popped off two quick shots
And suddenly a hundred pealed.

Bullets riddled walls like hail 
Whose form a bullet bore;
Baddies fell like front line soldiers
Sent into a hopeless war. 

Six shots left the Persian’s pistol 
In a whirling spray;
Six small arrows made of lead
Embedded in their prey.

Bobtail somehow played despite this
Or at least until
A bullet caught his shoulder
At which point he’d had his fill.

Manxon, keeper of the ground
On which this showdown fell,
Blasted someone through the doors:
Now known as a saloon’s farewell. 

Though there was no dust to settle
For they were inside,
As the hailstorm ceased it seemed
The case had well been tried.

Bang - came one more shot from whom 
The source was not first known,
Then quickly came another - bang -
At which point silence set the tone. 

The smoking gun of Ragdoll 
Was an evident last sight,
Followed by two bodies falling;
Closing out the plight.

Baddie number eight dropped swiftly
From the bullet Walker shot
While Benny Birman slowly slumped
From where he had been caught. 

Manxon was right there to lay down
Gently his good friend:
The slug which Benny took in truth 
Was fired for the barkeep’s end.

“Sorry, Al, I know it’s tough 
To sweep without a tail.”
Benny tried to laugh, then added,
“Maybe find a broom on sale.”

Over where the piano rested
(Now perhaps a woodwind),
Bobtail Fisher licked his wound 
While nearby Mean Jack grinned.

For all his cruel intentions
Jack now laid perhaps the calmest;
Caused in large part by the two
Shots Ragdoll plainly promised.

Benny passed away a short time
After things concluded;
And Ragdoll Walker, to the Persian
Spoke of things alluded:

“You knew him, then," said Ragdoll,
"I believe he called you Cy.”
“I did," the Persian said, “and now 
I guess this is goodbye." 

The stage at closing was just this:
A ruinous saloon.
The scene consisted of the players
Still beneath a half-hid moon.

Still alive, though Benny Birman
Fought his fight and found his rest,
And given yet another day
To face the wild west.


Epilogue

Early in the afternoon
Of one Sunday mid-May,
Ol’ Allen Manxon felt at last
His broom chose to obey.

‘Times are changing’ was a phrase
That Benny always used,
So Al had bought a broom; a tool
Which prior he refused.

“Howdy, Al," a herald came
From by the double doors,
“Hey there, Bobby," Al replied,
Still focused on his floor.

Bobtail’s shoulder, finally, 
Was back to working order:
Had he not defied the doc,
The wait would have been shorter. 

“Lookin’ pretty sharp, this place," 
Said Fisher, piano driven,
“Hold on a sec," said Manxon,
To the gung-ho young musician.

Yet once more the double doors 
Swung open, as he spoke;
Ragdoll Walker, which for Manxon
Was luck’s perfect stroke.

“Sheriff," said the barkeep, “to
The minute, you’re on time.
You and Bob together here is 
Providence sublime." 

“What’s up, Al," asked Walker, who 
Had gone behind the bar.
“Something special came this morning," 
Al said, “from afar.”

Manxon fished around a moment
Then pulled out a gorgeous box:
Wooden and engraved, and finished
Fine enough to knock-off socks.

“Where this milk comes from," he said,
Removing one thin bottle,
“The cows are almost royalty;
They study Aristotle." 

Allen took his three best glasses,
Set them near his friends,
Then poured the snow-white liquid till
The bottle reached its end.

"To Benny,” Allen Manxon said,
"To Benny,” they replied.
They laughed and reminisced and spoke
Of Benny with due pride.