(in honor of International Cat Day, Aug. 8)

I was a cat girl first, long ago
in the days when we allowed our
female felines to birth litters
of kittens that my best friend,
my sister and I “trained” to play
with dangled bits of yarn, little
fluff balls that we plopped in
the litter box and moved their tiny
paws to show them how to dig
a wee hole in the sand.

As if they didn’t arrive already
programmed to do both
and so much more.

All these years later, having cared
for more than my share of kitties—
some feral, some babies needing
hand-feeding at all hours, some big
dumb boy cats and some savvy
females who grew cuddly with age—

I realize that I cannot dodge
the moniker of friend to felines,
though currently I live with two,
way below the legal limit.

Perhaps, born a Leo, I was fated
to serve four-footed enlightened
beings who meow, who come
to me as I type, place a careful paw
on my leg and hop up to settle
onto my lap,

their little engines rumbling
as they fall into meditation
or prayer, sharing their
peaceful cat karma with all
beings everywhere,

not least with me.