I met a new friend today, a small, dusty little stray cat called Scruffy who apparently lived on our porch all winter and has adopted our house as his home. It's so sad to see him sleeping outside in the cold, though, and I wish we could take him in, but Dodger and Latte would probably hate him and he might have diseases. He just seems so lonely. This is entirely unrelated to my theatre theme, but this is the Ballad of Growltiger (Scruffy's tough-guy tomcat name).
There is a little hobo cat
who lives outside my door,
If ever there was a home he had,
he hasn't anymore.
Small and shabby, hoarse and thin,
Around the block he roams,
A growly little voice is heard,
Afraid of me he was at first,
(Kindness was hard to find),
Gold coin eyes and sooty fur
and that gravel voice did whine.
The little thing, he had no name,
but he wound around my hand,
and I pat his head and loved him so -
This affection, so unplanned.
Outside the door he'll always sit,
he cannot come inside,
But this little lonely hobo cat
has somewhere warm to hide.
A cushioned bench upon my porch,
all painted white and green,
An outdoor throne, and on this seat
small Scruffy can be seen.
The saga shall continue.