39 Not for publication

Reading:

Not for publication

‘Just as every doggerel
Has its day
So every cat has its 
McGonagall.’ 

- a pendant for Gavin Ewart

‘That’s not my Jasper cat at all! It’s not about your chosen theme. 
What’s more the first part manifests the deadly hand of academe. 
Write another just for me. You need not publish it.’ 
‘I’ll do my best. But first I must explain his moniker 
And tell of how it came about we called him ‘Jasper’’

Now Sir Jasper was the hero of a ditty that we used to sing 
As undergraduates when drunk. The eponym, a wicked squire,
Lusted after (or ‘abused’ as we would say today) pure
And virtuous maidens. ‘Oh Sir Jasper do not touch me!’ we sang in our 
Pretend falsettos. ‘Oh Sir Jasper do!’ responded that intoxicated choir.

Now that sexual predator of lore, grinning his lascivious leer,
Twirled his handlebar moustache when sizing up his prey. 
Jasper could not twirl his whiskers for all he might have wanted.
For he had claws instead of that prehensile member needed. 
And besides, his lust was cut-off when we had him neutered.

Yet his whiskers were a stunning sight, as his admirers all agreed.
So I will praise our Jasperine cat in the style of Smart’s Magnificat:
For he was entirely black except for a white stripe on his belly. 
For he had the longest, whitest whiskers any cat could need. 
For though he could not twirl them he could bristle them when angry.

For he was seldom roused to ire unless he was provoked.
For he had the most tranquil disposition (and a sandpaper tongue).
For he had this quality that I’d describe as quintessential ‘Jasper’:
For he exhibited an unexpected sense of mischief and of humour. 
For this goes back to the days when he was young.

For he liked to hide in a bush in our garden and when tossed
A ping-pong ball along the lawn he’d rush to grab it in his paws 
And run into a bush upon the other side. This silly game he’d 
Like to play for hours, teasing us prize it from his jaws. 
For he was no mere fun cat. For his rage was terrible when crossed.

For when he first came to live in Cornwall he was confronted
By a pet Jack Russell several times his size. This beast had bitten
Everyone, not least the postman and his owner. His savagery was chronic. 
For Jasper, three months old, then arched his back and gave a chthonic 
Roar, the like of which I’d never heard before. And the dog retreated.

For he liked to trespass on our bed although he knew it was forbidden. 
For he woke me with repeated tramping on the bedclothes. 
For if I did not stir he sniffed my cheek with icy nose.
For he reacted to my sleepy, ‘Clear off cat!’ with claws well hidden.
For he came to greet me from his station by the AGA when I rose.

For our neighbour found him dead one morning by our orchard gate.  
For a speeding motorcar had hit him in our lane and sealed his fate. 
For he’d survived the London traffic when we lived near a raging ring road. 
For Ben made him a tombstone. For first I typed this word a ‘tomstone’.
For this was merely lapsus linguae. For he deserved a royal funeral ode!