I Would Not Make a Very Good Cat

After having a cat for eight months now,
I think that I safely can say,
I think that I might make a good one.
Perhaps I will try it some day.

Your worries are few and quite simple.
You can make any place, be your bed.
You meow when you want some attention.
You meow when you want to get fed.

I can play with a string that is dangling.
I don’t find it all that much fun.
When I’m caught in the act of some mischief,
I cannot tuck my tail when I run.

I can’t quite get the hang of all-fouring.
I might practice when no-one is looking.
I’d look kinda strange in the kitchen,
Rubbing up on whoever is cooking.

I’ll pass on the box with the litter.
I’d track it all over the house.
I don’t get a thrill playin’ with catnip.
I would faint at the sight of a mouse.

And purring!  Forget it.  Can’t do it.
That’s probably the cat’s toughest act.
I can’t climb a tree like I used to.
A few fleas I did manage to attract.

Warm milk really don’t push my buttons.
Nine lives, isn’t bad as you’d think.
The toilet is one place I’ll stray from,
‘Less I’m desperate in need of a drink.

I’ve weighed all the issues of catting.
I don’t think it’s really for me.
Perhaps a big dog is more like it.
What I should aspire to be.