Chowder With My Clowder

I have chowder with my clowder every Tuesday, twelve o’clock,

but before I sit at table, I put on my flowered frock,

then make sure they’ve washed their faces and their paws ‘til squeaky clean,

and I count them as they enter one by one, and all thirteen.

When we all have finished eating, and before they take a nap,

I make sure they’ve cleaned their dishes, every tidbit, every scrap.

Having chowder with my clowder you may think is very odd,

but it’s time well spent to teach some manners to my little squad:

how to use their napkins, sit up straight, and which spoon they should choose,

keeping elbows off the table (oh, yes, cats have elbows, too).

While some will crumble crackers very fine into their stew,

the others simply dip their saltines every bite or two.

On Wednesdays, we have burgers, all the fixin’s and the fries,

and Thursdays are the days for roasted duck and sev’ral pies.

Every Friday is our fish day, either catfish or grilled trout,

but on Saturdays, we never cook, and have our dinner out.

Now, Sundays are our warm-up days with doggy bags brought back

(I’ve often wondered why they didn’t name them ‘For Your Kitty Sack.’)

This brings us back to Mondays when we all fend for ourselves,

and one by one, check out the pantry, see what’s on the shelves.

It’s Mommy’s cleaning/washing day, and we cannot depend

on her this day because she says with us work never ends.

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Rhyming Poetry Contest contest entry

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#834
2019

Clowder is a group of cats.

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