Scott Dexter (sdexter@shl.com) describes himself as a "young beatnik with shallow roots." He's been published in Atmospherics, Poet's Park and SubUrbanTerrain. Big fan of coffeehouses everywhere.


my cat, the umbrella
(or, the irishman next door)
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quite a pleasant evening. my pussy and i were waltzing to our favorite, the blue danube. you see, my cat is deaf; been deaf for three years, so when it comes to music, i like to think she prefers waltzes. me? i've always been a sucker for operas, even schubert -- i catch myself humming ave maria at the oddest times.

like when my mother died. she would sing to it, and even though the walls and windows were rained on with coke and beer bottles, my dear old ma would belt out a version that woke up the dead. --that is how i came across my cat: it screamed into my room one night while my mom was wailing away.

here was my mother, drowning out the passing jumbo jets. the worst critic was one of our neighbors, a stout irish man in his 50's who couldn't stand any of my mom's catcalling. he usually rained beer bottles on our roof, with pot roast warning shots every once in a while, just for spice. once, a couple handfuls of potatoes came sailing over with the meat, and we had dinner for a couple days. so he was a nice guy, just a little short when it comes to classical music.
my mother had been doing her number for almost three months -- she really had it down: she knew when to be soft, and when to let everyone have it. our irish neighbor had the number down too, and sometimes it was like watching my own little operetta: my mom crooning her heart out with flying glass and food in the background, all right on cue with me and my cat as the audience.

my pussy is a big one, but deaf, like i mentioned. it happened quite by mistake: it was i think a thursday, for some reason that makes sense to me. and mom decided to take my cat with her and headed for the porch. "i'm goin for achapella tonight," and i was worried. a sick thought ran through my head and i had to put the menthos away. something was afoot. she never sang achapella. never. i could always find solace in our stereo system -- every now and again i'd thwart her and turn it up louder than she. but something was wrong. she was singing achapella. could she be courting our irishman? did she want my pussy for a duet? did i lose my menthos?

she waltzed to her own melody, with my cat, right up to the fence between us and the irishman. she kept the cat on her shoulder. and she started. louder, worse than i've ever heard her wail. i regret that the irishman was home. he launched a bottle or two, and my mom kept right on singing. i scrambled to find my menthos and a good seat to watch my opera. again, a couple bottles sailed over the fence and landed on the porch, one of them shattering into a thousand little insults. my mom kept singing. i couldn't find the menthos. fuck. damn mints. my mom was getting to her favorite part, and the irishman knew it because a twenty pound turkey appeared like a shuttle launch from the yard next door. it went straight up, then straight down -- but on our side of the fence.

i was in awe: in almost slow motion i watched my mom spot the bird, realize that she was wearing a feline, and simultaneously duck and position the cat umbrella above her.

my cat became a turkey mortar shield.

my pussy was obviously seriously damaged. the turkey must have impacted near the cat's head. i'm not exactly sure -- when i saw my mom hoist the cat into the air i clamped my eyes shut and thought about barney, thinking he could stop it. my cat, my poor pussy, let out a slow meandering lament, not even close to the key my mom was in.

my mom stopped singing, gathered herself and my cat, and stepped back into the house. even now, i remember her carrying a sense of dignity, though i can't for the life of me figure out why she felt that way. she stopped right in front of me. handing me my pussy, she said only two words: "i'm sorry."

it was the last time she sang. about a year later, my mom started to get very sick, and i forgave her for using my cat as a turkey umbrella. she smiled, hummed a few bars of ave maria, and died. at her funeral i caught myself humming the tune, scratching my cat between it's deaf ears.

i keep my mom with me, waltzing with my deaf cat in our backyard, occasionally cranking ave maria, and tossing a bottle or two over the fence at the irishman, just to remind him.







Scott Dexter

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