Boris Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2005 by Cynthia Rylant

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Rylant, Cynthia.

  Boris/Cynthia Rylant.

  p. cm.

  1. Cats—Poetry. I. Title.

  PS3568.Y55B67 2005

  811’.54—dc22 2004021093

  ISBN-13: 978-0-15-205412-0 ISBN-10: 0-15-205412-X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-15-205809-8 pb ISBN-10: 0-15-205809-5 pb

  eISBN 978-0-547-53769-6

  v1.0115

  1

  They were smart

  to put a storefront

  humane shelter

  on the street I walked.

  I was new in town.

  Everybody else was used

  to those cats in cages

  in the windows.

  They kept on walking,

  trained not to glance over,

  lest they lie awake

  at night thinking about

  that long-haired tabby

  waiting

  waiting

  waiting.

  But I hadn’t been trained.

  I tried not to look.

  I have never been able

  to go to a humane shelter.

  But now

  they had brought one to me.

  I’d buried my last cat

  two years before.

  I had only dogs now.

  Dogs that didn’t get into

  howling, spitting fights

  in the middle of the night.

  Dogs that didn’t spray

  or leave chunks of

  frothy hair ball on the

  carpet exactly where I

  place my feet

  in the morning.

  I had buried my last cat.

  I was a dog person now.

  But they’d put a storefront

  humane shelter

  on the street I walked

  every day.

  And I was new in town.

  I lasted two months.

  Then I went inside,

  swearing I’d get only one,

  and only a girl,

  and no more.

  Working hard to keep

  my heart together.

  Cages, cages, eyes.

  They can’t be too sad.

  Cats sleep 80 percent

  of the time.

  They are all right,

  could be worse.

  Don’t look at that dog

  over there.

  The one storefront dog

  in the cage.

  You will break apart.

  Not made for shelters.

  Ashamed of it.

  But not made for shelters.

  At first I thought,

  I’ll choose this one,

  this nervous one.

  I’ll choose this one,

  this old battered one.

  I’ll choose this one,

  this bright one.

  Cages, cages, eyes.

  And then last cage,

  last cage,

  there you were, Boris.

  With your gray sister.

  And you stood up

  and stretched

  and purred

  and promised, promised

  you would be good if

  I took her, too,

  because she had

  kept you alive

  all those days and days and days.

  Three months in a cage,

  Boris, with your sister,

  living in the moment

  with only your memories

  of leaves and rooftops

  and warm brown mice.

  I promise, you said,

  and I believed you,

  and I took home

  two cats—one more

  than I wanted, and

  a boy at that—

  but you promised,

  and I knew.

  2

  You spent the first week

  hiding

  under a down comforter

  in the farthest room

  at the back of my house

  upstairs.

  We’d step in softly

  to visit you, Boris,

  you and your sister.

  And, slowly, out you’d come

  with a stretch and a yawn.

  Not ready for freedom

  just yet.

  One gets used to a cage,

  whether he likes it

  or not.

  We held you both

  on our laps

  and spoke your names

  as we stroked

  your heads.

  Near week’s end

  we had a talk

  with the dogs.

  We told them

  there were two cats

  upstairs

  they didn’t know about

  who’d been

  listening to all the barking.

  We told them to be nice.

  Then one of us went in

  to sit with you

  while the other let

  the dogs in, quietly.

  You were so fine, Boris.

  Not a flinch.

  They wagged and sniffed

  and pressed closer

  and just one little

  flick of the ear

  was all you gave away

  of your alarm.

  So fine.

  A week later

  you and your sister

  were downstairs,

  fighting for lap space

  with the dachshund.

  And when you swatted

  that stubborn dog’s nose one day,

  we knew

  you were home.

  3

  There are eagles

  where we live, Boris,

  and maybe you don’t

  know this,

  but they have

  been known to carry off cats.

  I even heard

  about one eagle

  who carried off a dog.

  Usually the eagle

  overestimates his abilities,

  and he drops the dog

  or the cat

  before he ever gets it back

  to the wife and kids

  in the nest.

  Still, that drop

  has got to hurt.

  I read about

  one cat in a cast

  for months.

  So listen, Boris,

  though I love those eagles,

  love them,

  you must assume

  they are all out to get you,

  and you must never,

  as I often do,

  stand on a beach

  beneath them

  and say,

  “Oh, how beautiful!”

&nb
sp; Because one of

  them is

  at that very moment

  measuring you

  from head to tail,

  pulling out his

  calculator and

  converting inches into

  pounds

  and assessing

  just what velocity

  he’d have to be traveling

  to sweep you

  off your feet

  and have you

  over for dinner.

  As dinner.

  I am hoping, Boris,

  that the fish

  those eagles

  pluck from the water

  every morning for breakfast

  will never run out,

  because if they do,

  we are going to

  have to feed you nothing but

  milk shakes and butter

  until we are rolling you

  down the beach

  every day

  and telling those birds

  you are just

  not

  worth the trouble.

  4

  The rains are starting, Boris,

  and we are seeing

  much more of you.

  There at the door with

  your sad, wet cry.

  Missing the warm stove

  in the garden room

  where your sister lies

  curled, blissfully

  unaware of your absence.

  We all need to

  come home sometime.

  May as well time it

  with the winter rain.

  For in summer who cares.

  We care nothing for

  the soft, velvety chair

  alongside the reading lamp.

  Nothing for the warm

  down pillows

  on our beds.

  The hot showers.

  The thick robes.

  The cocoa.

  In summer we love

  less our faithful houses

  and pledge our allegiance

  to willow trees

  and hammocks

  and full night moons.

  Poor houses.

  Waiting patiently

  till we finally

  appreciate the

  roofs that don’t leak,

  the doors that don’t squeak,

  and the furnace

  that works.

  We are like you, Boris.

  We are outside cats

  and proud of it

  until the first big drop

  of rain hits our noses

  and we run for the door,

  leaving our free spirits

  behind us,

  crawling into someone’s lap.

  5

  They were guessing at the shelter

  when they said you

  might be four, Boris.

  You could have been

  seven or eight.

  Somebody who has, as they say,

  been around the block.

  Were you hoping they’d

  subtract a few years,

  filling out that cat form?

  Because you know

  how the world is.

  You’re just cruising along,

  minding your own business,

  not paying much attention

  to the number of Christmases

  rolling by.

  Then one day no one

  thinks you’re cute anymore.

  Is cuteness a must

  in the cat world, Boris?

  It is in mine.

  And beyond a certain age,

  cuteness is an impossibility.

  Nothing left but character,

  and that won’t get you a

  good table at a restaurant

  or a warning

  instead of a speeding ticket.

  I know the shelter

  was the pits, Boris.

  I don’t mean to minimize it.

  But I can think of a lot

  of years

  I wish I’d been given a fresh start.

  Past wiped out.

  New identity.

  A few years shaved off.

  But they don’t allow it

  here in my world.

  Here in my world

  the forms go on forever

  and they hold you

  like a fly in amber.

  Forever in that petri dish,

  forever exactly who

  your parents and your schools

  and your government numbers

  say you are.

  It is impossible to go back

  and start over.

  Nearly impossible to disappear.

  Were you really four, Boris,

  when I found you?

  No matter.

  Be who you are.

  6

  I heard them last night,

  Boris,

  that pack of dogs that occasionally

  runs through the neighborhood.

  With my window open,

  I heard them barking

  and grunting

  and sniffing

  and panting

  just outside,

  on the trail of who knows what,

  but glad it wasn’t you,

  Boris,

  glad it wasn’t you.

  How did you know

  to stay in?

  Whenever they’ve

  been through here,

  every three months or so,

  you’ve been tucked in

  the house somewhere,

  downstairs

  curled with your sister,

  ears sharp and twitching

  as you listen to

  those clumsy, dangerous

  dogs outside.

  How did you know

  to stay in?

  Was there rumor

  of a rumble