I ask aloud then realise that I'm alone and the cat isn't here.
This morning at 8.30 am the cat was taken to the vet's surgeon. Yesterday, she tried to tell me she was about to crash but I went to work instead and had a lovely cappuccino.
The cat is staying overnight in her little cage at the hospital, drip fed and fluid intravenously administered. I may be allowed to visit her later.
I am trying not to despair. I will not cry. She has been here before. She will survive this. I know she will. Death will just have to be a little more patient. The Grim Reaper will meet her soon, I know, but not yet, not yet.
I am going into blogging overdrive.
I am also trying to get on with my poetry course.
And this is where on page 231 of the Big Red Book, I have stalled and exclaimed my exclamatory question.
The culprit is this poem: "Quoof, by Paul Muldoon". I don't think I can reproduce this poem here in case it breaches copyright. I've already put a Terry Pratchet quote in my blog and I am waiting for one of his watchmen to arrest me. Ooo-er.
Apparently Mr Muldoon is using a poetic method called "slant rhyme".
"Slant rhyme is to full rhyme what jazz chords are to standard guitar chords" quoth the Big Red Book.
I like this notion. It sounds utterly mad and free-ing and groovy. And I'd like to think I'm all that. So I would like to try and emulate "Quoof".
But I will not cry. I will however ask of "Quoof", what the hell are you on about?