Sammy Nutkins is a poet. He’s also a ginger cat, but we all need to find our own place in life even when it follows an unconventional path.
A particularly handsome ginger cat, with a slightly academic air and symmetrical marmalade stripes, eyes the colour of liquid amber (when they’re open), and an elegantly long tail which harks back to his Siamese ancestry. He is well aware ancient Egyptians would have worshipped him.
Being a poet cat brings numerous problems; Sammy’s main bugbear is his little sis Rita. Rita is tortoiseshell, as mad as a box of frogs, and as boisterous and in-your-face as he is pedantic and thoughtful.
When he’s not asleep, Sammy spends a lot of time sitting and thinking. Maybe he’s pondering rhyming couplets, or maybe he’s wondering if there’s time for a nap before tea?
A Time to Ode
A hearty breakfast and tummy tickles
then sleep on the comfy chair.
My little sister stalks the house until she finds me there.
She snuggles up and steals my space, snoring in my ear
and doesn’t move the whole day long, til supper doth appear.
The humans love to stroke and pet
we have to grin and bear,
always laying on our backs to show our tummy hair.
We’re tempted back to sleep some more, endorphins make us purr,
‘pon waking, we always wash and dry our crumpled feline fur.
Then sister says she wants to play,
running round the house
the humans shout and reprimand, they think we have a mouse!
I always win the fighting game, my stature is much higher,
then I need a little rest; in the comfy chair I retire.
But now the woodburner’s well alight
logs and hearth are warm,
to the fire for evening sleep, sis and I are drawn.
I sit and watch the flames a-flicker, and think of words that rhyme
I’d like to ode the whole day long . . . if only I had the time.
a horse, a husband, and cancer 
I feel so snuggly and comforted by this, as if I’m curled by the wood burner myself. As a closeted rhyming poet myself, I applaud Sammy for putting it boldly and cozily out there that rhyming poetry is absolutely the cat’s meow.
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rhyming poetry is the stuff of our childhood isn’t it Susan
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I adore Sammy from first glimpse! And his casual approach to What’s Life All About: “Maybe he’s pondering rhyming couplets, or maybe he’s wondering if there’s time for a nap before tea?”
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we should all be a Bit More Like Sammy, eh Lasell?
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The tiny dictator. It’s like him to highjack the blog to show off like this. And then lay around and act mildly disinterested that Americans are besotted with him like he’s the new Paul McCartney. (Hi Rita.)
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don’t take it personally Anna, you’re not the only person they ignore. Maybe the most famous but. . .
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“…if only I had time “. Oh Sammy if only I could burry my face in that tummy hair. Alas , no could be your decree.
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its lovely, buryable tummy hair Kim, do Bob and Fiona like ticky-tums too?
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I think that I shall never see
a nose as pink as the one on Sammy.
There, I’ve said it, and now I’m a swooning mass of overwhelmed feline enthusiast. Because, pink toe beans, too!!
Or is it because I’m American?
In any case, thank you for sharing Sammy and his sister (I’m going to store “mad as a box of frogs” next to that place in my brainpan where I keep “squirmier than a can of worms in the sun”.)
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“squirmier than a can of worms in the sun” I love that one Linda.
Oh, and don’t get me started on baked-bean feet. No it’s not just because you’re American, they get me every time too!
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