A few years ago Horace, my ginger tom, had an accident and he wasn’t allowed out for a while. It was while he was convalescing that I realised he had a secret alter ego – a super-cool hero cat called Horace McHorace. Here’s a poem I wrote about him.
Horace McHorace, all ginger and white
He sleeps through the day and he stalks through the night.
He’s the fiend of the flowerbed, the laird of the lawn
And he’s never at home between dinner and dawn.
Horace McHorace is king of our street.
Our steps are his throne room from which he will greet
All his mates and his minions in need of his touch,
To the tabby in trouble he’s always a crutch.
When Horace McHorace is hunting for voles
His claws gleam like knives and his eyes burn like coals,
He prowls like a panther,
His ears twitch and swerve,
He’s the epitome* of cool courage and nerve.
Horace McHorace is ready to pounce.
He coils like a cobra and then with a flounce
Of a perfect white paw and aim true and just
His prey becomes history – the fly bites the dust!
Pronounced ep-it-o-me, not epi-tome, which would muck up the verse completely!