Garden Games With Harley.
Sara L. Russell, 14^th May, 2004.

Just as is the way with dogs,
cats run for sticks.
But they don’t bring them back.

No.
My stick.
Me run behind bush now;
You wait there,
foolish simian.

He runs behind a bush,
one end of the stick clamped possessively in his mouth
and the long end trailing behind him.

…Fifteen minutes later,
I prise the stick from his
small-but-deadly jaws.
The stick breaks, I pick up a longer one,
trail it along the ground.

He runs in demented circles,
attacks bare grass after the stick has left,
runs into the side of a tree, shakes his head
and runs on.

For a moment, I stop the stick’s movement.
He ponders this new development,
staring down,
ears pointing down,
whiskers pointing down.

Next door, someone crackles a refuse bin liner.
He jumps three feet vertically,
in the style of a Harrier Jet

and runs away.