A Tiny Fraction of All History

An absurdly handsome gargoyle settles down
to be self appointed guardian of our dreams,
and self arranges to occupy every inch of space,
his fur trimmed snowshoes coiling in the air.

He hates being ignored, and wails mournfully
through the house when we try to sleep;
but in our minds' eye we can picture perfectly
that smudge of black fur silhouetted by the hall door.

His cologne - distilled fluff - infuses in the clumps
of matted felt, woven from grey undercoat,
with tongue-dampened edges lie around the house,
curling decorously in cosy snug corners.

He sighs resignedly when he gets picked up,
resolving into his uncomfortably cradled position,
powerless to resist the cooing and kisses
stolen from his furrowed sable brow.

When we call his name a marionette pops up
ears askew on the top of his curious head,
bouncing with liquid ease over bushes and walls
before statuesquely promenading his way home.

Impatient eyes guided by primal hunger
implore us to share the bounty only we bestow,
and when it rattles in the fleetingly empty bowl
the head dives with the grace of a hunting owl.

A frantic chomping noise escapes greedily
accompanied by the clatter of busy teeth
culminating in an exaggerated lick of the lips
and an actorly swish of the brush of a tail.

The crack up the middle of his fearsome right fang
hairline, and almost imperceptible,
peeks out when his warm woollen body wraps
around our gentle tickling fingers.

When he has been freshly brushed
he purrs contentedly, proudly raising himself
on his beloved cushion in a sphinx imitation
and savouring every moment of awed devotion.

He's a huge presence in our little house –
whether languorously stretching with ears pinned back
or intensely chewing on his bedraggled cloth mouse ¬–¬
and we wouldn't swap him, even for a real child.