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Katty
What's YOUR Writing Style?
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You are not a writer. Maybe you should take up some other field--like photography or painting or such? Cuz it seems you really weren't meant for the literary world..... ...Oh well. C'est la vie, right? We all have our weak points. Maybe writing's yours, eh?
I'm so surprised yesterday when I found the dead body of my cat still in the cage. I have no idea what's going on to Mr. Palan. Why he didn't clean the dead body? I'm get angry when I found another cats still didn't have their meal for that day. That means, Mr. Palan didn't come to clean & fed the cats from the last time I visit the cats until yesterday. From now on, I'll make sure I'll check the cats everyday.
I've called Mr. Palan's house & his kid told me that he wasn't at home. I called my boss & let my boss see the dead body. I put the carcass inside the garbage plastic be4 throw it away. It's already late to do the post-mortem for the carcass that more than 24 hrs. Me & my boss together clean up all the cages & gave all the cats their meal.
After finishing my job, I took a half hr to play with Katty, one of my cat that have been fully recovered from sporotrichosis. I released her from her cage & let her out & playing with me. It's really fun & make me happy.
I got an interview letter yesterday for the post of Pegawai Sains at Putrajaya. Another job coming to me. But I don't want it. Just ignore the letter as the same as I ignore the previous one.
Milk for the Cat
When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.
At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour,
She is never late.
And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,
And her independent casual glance
Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.
Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
One breathing, trembling purr.
The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
The two old ladies stroke their silk:
But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.
The white saucer like some full moon descends
At last from the clouds of the table above;
She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
Transfigured with love.
She nestles over the shining rim,
Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
Is doubled under each bending knee.
A long, dim ecstasy holds her life;
Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
Then she sinks back into the night,
Draws and dips her body to heap
Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
Lies defeated and buried deep
Three or four hours unconscious there.
By: Harold Monro
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