For I will consider my Cat Cherie for she is the very apotheosis of Cat-Beauty which is to say, nothing extraordinary for in the Cat, beauty is ordinary like the bliss conferred upon us in the hypnosis of purr- ing. She has been known to knead her claws upon a sleeve. And on a knee. And on bare skin, sharp claws sinking in— just a warning. For she is of the tribe of Tyger and eyes burning bright though cuddling at night until you wake to discover— where is she? Cher-ie? Don’t inquire.
See the rest of the story at newyorker.com
Related:Sweating to Sappho
The Story of My Nine Lives
Poetry and Politics in Iran
from The New Yorker: Page-Turner http://ift.tt/1LQlMyk
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