adopting a new kitty cat

i go down to the cat shelter

to adopt a cat.

something house trained,

maybe a year

or two old, at the most.

but not a kitten.

a little cat who's been

fixed, and has

its claws removed

so that she can't tear

up my leather couch or

my 660 count percale

Egyptian cotton sheets.

something that doesn't

meow too much, or has

digestive issues.

they show me an orange

tabby with green eyes.

she reminds me of an old

girlfriend, Sally, from back

in the 1980's.

a big boned girl, but cute.

i'll take her, i say.

but there's paper work

and they ask me what my

intentions are for the cat.

i tell them, i have no intentions.

maybe i'll pet her once

in a while, but beyond that,

i don't know.

maybe i'll get a fake mouse

on a string and

drag that around

to play with her.

hmm, they say.

we need to see your living

space.

will she be left alone all day?

are there other people

in the house, other animals?

we need to know

where you work, and if you've

ever been convicted of a crime.

what's your credit rating,

and are you taking any sort

of medications?

i look at the cat, still locked

up in the cage,

content and curled in a warm

ball of fur.

ummm, do you guys deal in

goldfish by the way,

is there possibly a little fish

here i can adopt?

something small

so that it doesn't jump around

too much or leap

out of the bowl.

i couldn't handle finding it

flopping around

on the floor

when i get home from work.

or stiff and lifeless.

i've got a bowl at home i can

use. i keep my change

in it on top

of the refrigerator.

what would be your intentions

with this fish,

if allowed to adopt one?

they ask.