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For I will consider my Man Christopher.
For he is shut in a box, and betimes scratches
At the door, but is not let out. For his purr
Is varied and choked. For he has patches
Of calico, and these he sheds at dusk.
For he sleeps not when he would, but all of a night,
Straight as if lashed to board. For his eyelight
Is golden. For his coat is just a husk.
For seventhly, he makes his tabby marks
On parchment with a wagging quill. For his nerves
Are never quiet. For he dreams of parks.
For his whiskers wilt. For he strokes me. For he needs me.
For he arches in his sunbeam. For he serves
The Living God—by which I mean he feeds me.

—Daniel Galef