A prose poem
The cat stretches lazily on the windowsill, sunbeams caressing her sleek fur. Her tail flicks with disdain as the dog ambles by, tongue lolling.
“You oafish brute,” she murmurs. “Always panting, always needing, never content to simply be.”
The dog pauses, cocking his head. “And you, all airs and mysteries. Don’t pretend you don’t crave the comfort of a warm lap, a scratch behind the ears.”
“I require no such coddling,” the cat retorts. “I am self-contained, self-assured. Unlike you, desperate for affection, for scraps from the table.”
The dog’s eyes crinkle in a canine smile. “You mistake my open heart for desperation. I embrace the world, smells and sounds and the sheer joy of existence. While you, you skulk and sulk, your pleasures furtive and fleeting.”
The cat arches her back. “I savour the essence of each moment. I require neither constant reassurance nor ceaseless activity to be fulfilled.”
A low growl rumbles in the dog’s throat. “You nurture emptiness and call it depth. One day you’ll learn there’s no substitute for the honest pleasures of rolling in the grass, breathing the fresh air, loving and being loved in return.”
The cat’s tail twitches once, twice. She closes her eyes and says nothing, a small sphinx ignoring the blundering philosophies of her lesser kin.
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