Reigning (A Pome)

There is an old joke
that says dogs think we are gods,
because we give them food, water and care,
and that cats think they are gods
for the same reason.

Another says
the difference between them
is that if you get trapped in a mountain cabin in winter
and die,

with a dog,
in the Spring, when they find you
laid out in skeletal repose
the dog's skeleton will be at the foot of your bed,
a Greyfriars' sentinel.

But a cat?
They'll find it fat and happy,
its manifesto of practical survival
writ in teethmarks on your bones.

I've tolerated both species in my life,
and I prefer the cat.

Dogs form their cargo cults too easily.
So they throw themselves into their worship
with all four feet? So what?
They give their devotion too cheaply for it to be dear.
Who's to say
they wouldn't thumblessly embrace any other god as warmly?

But a cat's embrace
is as likely to be of claw as of purr.
Cats are Old Testament gods,
furry YHVHs, prescriptions never refilled.

But no matter the smiting,
I'll keep touching the paw of my Skinner box,
and whether I get the purr or the claw,
I can be content.