Hate That Cat Read online

  (For true.

  I am not just saying that

  to make you feel good.)

  P.S.S. No I cannot write

  about my mother.

  That would be

  IM-POSS-I-BLE.

  NOVEMBER 27

  Yes, I know

  that all those bad things

  could happen to a dog, too,

  which is why

  I

  don’t

  want

  a

  dog

  either.

  I already had

  a dog

  my dog Sky

  my funny furry

  smiling dog Sky.

  NOVEMBER 30

  It’s strange that now

  when you read a poem to the class

  I hear alliteration popping out

  everywhere.

  I never heard it before

  or maybe I heard the sounds

  but I didn’t know why they were

  sticking in my head.

  Yesterday after you read the eagle poem

  by Mr. Tennyson

  (is he alive?)

  those first two lines stuck stuck stuck

  in my head:

  He clasps the crag with crooked hands

  Close to the sun in lonely lands . . .

  And I could see that eagle

  all day long

  clasping the crag with his crooked hands

  in those lonely lands

  just sitting up there watching

  watching

  before he

  F

  A

  L

  L

  S

  boom like a thunderbolt!

  Does he swoop into the sea

  and snatch a fish?

  Or a little mousie on the hillside?

  Or a creepy cat?

  Sorry. Just kidding.

  DECEMBER 4

  THE DOG

  (INSPIRED BY MR. TENNYSON)

  BY JACK

  He pats the kitten with puffy paws

  near the window draped with gauze

  and yawns and opens up his jaws.

  The wrinkled rug beneath him lies.

  He watches with his big black eyes

  and like a lazy boy he sighs.

  Well.

  At least the dog

  did not

  EAT

  the kitten.

  DECEMBER 6

  Those kittens of yours

  surprised me

  they got so big

  and they are so funny

  (especially for cats)

  and that black one

  with the white spot

  on her forehead

  she fell asleep

  right in my lap

  even though I didn’t

  pet her

  well, only a tiny bit

  and she was purrrrrrrring

  while she slept

  so I think she was happy

  but

  don’t get me wrong

  a dog is still much better

  than a cat.

  DECEMBER 11

  THE RED-HEADED MAILMAN

  (INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)

  BY JACK

  So much depends upon

  a red-headed mailman

  walking up the drive

  holding a blue postcard.

  Did you BELIEVE

  the postcard I brought in?

  Did you BELIEVE

  that Mr. Walter Dean Myers—

  my all-time favorite poet

  who visited our class

  last year—

  that Mr. Walter Dean Myers

  himself

  sent me a postcard?

  I didn’t believe it

  when I saw it.

  I sat right down on the steps

  and read it about fifty times.

  And do you BELIEVE

  That he mentioned his

  C A T ????

  His CAT !

  I love that postcard

  love love love it

  but I’m still a little surprised

  that Mr. Walter Dean Myers

  has a CAT.

  I thought he would have

  a dashing dog

  or maybe a hearty horse.

  It is hard to picture

  Mr. Walter Dean Myers

  with

  a

  CAT.

  DECEMBER 13

  Yes

  I wrote back to

  Mr. Walter Dean Myers.

  I asked him

  why he likes his

  CAT

  so much.

  I asked him

  if he ever thought about

  getting

  a

  DOG.

  DECEMBER 14

  THE BAD BLACK CAT

  I was standing at the

  yellow bus stop

  minding my own business

  when I heard

  mew mew mew

  like it was coming from the sky

  mew mew mew

  and I looked up and saw

  a big black cat

  all fluffy fur and green eyes

  crouched in the tree

  mew mew mew

  and I thought it was stuck

  and so I climbed up the tree

  way up high

  to the skinny branches

  and I leaned way out

  and the bus was coming

  and I leaned out farther

  and grasped the black tail

  of that black cat

  and I was so glad I’d caught it

  I was going to save it

  and it would be so relieved

  and grateful

  and the bus was coming

  and that fat black cat

  leaped BACKWARDS

  onto my head

  and it scratched my ears

  and my neck

  and my face

  and it hissed the most awful

  spitting horrible hisssss

  as it scratch scratch scratched

  with claws as sharp as needles

  and I was bleeding all over the place

  and the cat scrambled across my back

  and onto my legs

  and

  d

  o

  w

  n

  the tree

  while I lay there

  clinging to the branch

  stinging and bleeding

  and the bus

  passed

  right on by.

  I hate that cat.

  DECEMBER 17

  Why did the man

  throw the cat

  out the window?

  He wanted to hear

  it say

  “Me-OW!”

  (I made that up.

  I thought it was very funny

  but maybe you won’t like it.

  I will try to stop saying

  mean things

  about mean cats.)

  DECEMBER 18

  I thought you were kidding

  when you said that

  Mr. Walter Dean Myers’

  grown-up son Christopher

  had written a book called

  Black Cat!

  I felt like

  Mr. Walter Dean Myers’

  whole family

  must be in my brain.

  When you started reading the book—

  Black cat, black cat

  cousin to the concrete

  creeping down our city streets . . .

  —I thought it was going to be about

  a mean cat

  like the mean black cat

  that attacked me.

  All the words were

  singing in my head

  and I was thinking

  Wow, that Mr. Christopher Myers

  knows about alliteration!

  And it turned out not to be

  a m
ean cat.

  It was a sauntering and sipping

  and dancing and ducking cat

  wandering through the city streets

  just like a kid

  roaming

  and

  poking

  around.

  DECEMBER 19

  I read Black Cat to my mother

  tapping my fingers

  in the rhythm

  like you showed us:

  HARD-soft HARD-soft

  slow and then faster.

  She drew a circle with her finger

  which means again

  so I read it over, tapping

  and then she put her hand up:

  Stop

  and I watched while she tapped

  the same rhythm

  as

  she

  turned

  the

  pages

  HARD-soft HARD-soft

  slow and then faster

  and then she closed the book

  and tapped her heart

  HARD-soft HARD-soft

  slow and then faster.

  DECEMBER 20

  When you put up that one line

  from the eagle poem—

  He clasps the crag with crooked hands

  —and used all those different colored chalks

  to show how Mr. Tennyson

  managed to cram in

  ALLITERATION

  and

  ASSONANCE

  and

  CONSONANCE

  all in one line

  well

  I was impressed

  but that doesn’t mean

  I remember which is which

  and

  I will never be able to do all that stuff

  that Mr. Tennyson does

  and did he know he was doing it

  when he did it?

  I feel stupid.

  I am a bad writer.

  I’m going to quit.

  DECEMBER 21

  Thank you for telling me

  I could FORGET

  those confusing words

  and that it isn’t knowing the words

  that describe writing

  that is important—

  it is the thoughts in our heads

  that are most important

  and that feeling the rhythm

  is even more

  wondrous

  than hearing the rhythm.

  And

  thank you for saying

  I am a genius

  (even though I know

  you are exaggerating).

  JANUARY 3

  THE GIFT

  (INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)

  BY JACK

  So much depends upon

  a black kitten

  in a straw basket

  under the Christmas tree.

  JANUARY 4

  My parents woke me

  so early

  and seemed in a hurry

  to rush me downstairs

  to the Christmas tree blinking

  and

  the fire crackling

  and I didn’t see it right away

  that little straw basket

  tucked to one side

  I was on the floor

  pawing through the packages

  when something moved—

  I thought maybe it was a mouse

  that had crept inside

  and I jumped back

  (not that I am afraid of

  a mouse

  but it wouldn’t be my

  favorite thing

  to encounter in a pile of presents)

  —and then I saw

  a blur of black fur—

  and I thought

  Oh no!

  No no no no!

  It’s the fat black cat!

  But then:

  a pink nose

  tiny black paws

  and blinking sleepy eyes

  a small black fur ball

  not a BIG fat fur ball

  a kitten

  stumbling

  out of the basket

  and wobbling over to me

  and crawling up on my lap

  and licking my pajamas

  and I forgot

  that I hate cats

  as it crawled up onto my chest

  and purrrrrred

  and I was smiiiiiling

  all

  over

  the

  place.

  JANUARY 8

  SO MUCH

  (INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)

  BY JACK

  So much depends upon

  a black kitten

  dotted with white

  beside the photo

  of my yellow dog.

  JANUARY 10

  My is like a .

  I couldn’t think

  of a simile.

  Brain broken.

  Can’t even think of a name

  for the bouncing black kitten

  that’s how broken my brain is.

  I call her Kitty and Mooshie

  and Wiggles and Flopper

  but I don’t have a real name

  for her yet.

  Don’t tell anyone those goofy

  names I use, okay?

  They are embarrassing.

  JANUARY 14

  “The Naming of Cats”

  by Mr. T. S. Eliot

  made me laugh.

  Munkustrap? Bombalurina?

  Jellyrum???

  That Mr. T. S. Eliot

  (is he alive?)

  must like cats.

  And do you think it is

  true

  that cats have their own

  secret names

  that only they know—

  their “ineffable effable”

  names?

  Okay, I will unfreeze my brain

  now

  and write a simile

  but I am warning you:

  it might not be too good.

  The chair in my room

  is like a pleasingly plump momma.

  JANUARY 17

  Go on?

  Tell why that chair

  is like a pleasingly plump momma?

  Hmmmm.

  The chair in my room

  is like a pleasingly plump momma

  big and squishy

  with stuffing poking out.

  It is over there in the corner

  sitting quietly

  silently

  waiting for me

  to come and jump

  in her lap

  and bring

  a book or two

  or a blanket

  when I’m sick.

  That plump momma chair

  just sits there

  waiting for me

  and while she waits

  she looks a little lonely

  to tell you the truth.

  She used to have a dog

  to jump into her lap

  when I wasn’t home

  but all that is left

  of my good yellow dog

  are pieces of his fur

  stuck here and there.

  And now there is a kitten

  but the kitten doesn’t like

  the yellow chair

  half as much

  as she likes

  my pillow.

  JANUARY 24

  After tremendous tugging

  at my broken brain

  I finally dug up a metaphor.

  It’s about the kitten

  (who now has a name:

  Skitter McKitter

  because that’s what she does

  skitter here

  skitter there

  skitter every-every-where).

  Ready? For the metaphor?

  THE BLACK KITTEN

  The black kitten

  is a poet

  L E A P I N G

  from

  line

  to
r />   line

  sometimes runningrapidly

  sometimes s o o t h i n g s l o w l y

  here and there

  up

  and

  down

  d

  o UP

  w UP

  n UP

  and

  in a silent steady rhythm

  exploring

  all

  the

  tiny

  pieces

  of

  the

  world.

  JANUARY 31

  Well, no

  don’t put it on the board

  because now that I read it again

  it doesn’t make sense.

  I know what I was trying to say

  But I didn’t get it right.

  The kitten is a poet

  it’s something I feel

  but I can’t get it into words.

  A good poet would be able

  to paint, with words,

  things that you can feel

  but don’t know how to say.

  It’s sort of like when

  my mother

  puts one hand on my back

  and one hand on my chest

  to hear me laughing

  or to feel me laughing

  because

  then she understands

  what my laughing

  sounds like and feels like.

  She can see me laugh

  and she can sign the word for

  laugh

  but she cannot hear the laugh.

  Yesterday, she put one hand

  on Skitter’s back

  and one hand on her stomach

  so she could hear the purr.

  I cannot explain a purr

  just like I cannot explain