Mrs. Selvaraj (not her real name),
My Indian neighbor a stone's throw away,
Was like a mother to me,
Always concerned about my ever-increasing household cat population
Which by the way was welcomed in a household
Where Death was not only not a stranger
But also only eight months ago
Claimed the lives of six babies,
Two children and four grandchildren,
Six-to-seven-month-old teenagers,
In the space of one week,
Resulting in their adoptive momma cat,
A senior momma cat without babies of its own,
Suffering a stroke on the third day of searching for them in vain
And eventually dying within a month
From a broken heart
Mostly
As did I
In a less fatal manner
Perhaps as she knew I was temporarily out of a job by choice,
And hence was concerned from the financial point of view
More than anything else,
Just as she was very concerned,
And always took an interest,
In pointing out to me,
The cat poop spots I sometimes accidentally overlooked
By the side of the road,
And always opposite her house,
Every time I went around this part of the neighborhood,
Cat poop scoop equipment in hand,
In search of cat poop to scoop up from wherever it might be
found,
Usually on a sandy spot in front of someone's house
Or along the side of the road,
Or someone's cement-work-in-progress sand pile nearby,
If one was available,
As was the case at present.
Poor Mrs. Selvaraj (not her real name),
My Indian neighbor a stone's throw away,
For she would surely suffer a heart attack,
If she knew,
Apart from my existing household cat population boom,
The earlier-batch babies of two momma cats,
Two children and three grandchildren,
Who should be in their teens by now
And missing the whole day today too,
Were probably out there somewhere looking for mates,
The boys looking for girls, the girls looking for boys,
To mate with,
Or, in other words,
And on a lighter note,
Babies making babies.
