justina forever

I met a cat one scorching day
beneath a leafy tree.
I offered her a glass of milk
but she just mewed at me.
“Drink up, my friend. It’s very hot!
The sun is killing you!”
I splashed a bit of milk at her
to see what she would do.
Her fur was shining, slick with sweat;
she panted like a pup.
I thought she’d lick the flying drops —
I thought she’d lap them up!
But no, not she. She did not move
to dodge the milky splatter.
It coated her in creamy flecks
and I said, “What’s the matter?”
She moved her lips as if to speak
and so I listened close:
“Li’l miss,” she croaked. Her tone was stern:
“I’ve had an overdose.”
The fur began to shed like mad
in matted, chunky clumps,
and then appearing on the skin
were angry boils and bumps.
The whiskers fell, and then the ears;
she tripled in her height;
and in her mouth were rows of teeth
all gnashing for a bite.
“Come here!” she roared. “I need some food!”
I nearly pissed my pants.
Yet somehow I walked up to her
as though I stood a chance.
How terrified I felt right then.
The taste of fear, so strong!
The bumpy beast — this former cat —
was fifty shades of wrong.
And suddenly she lunged at me
and knocked me to the ground.
My glass of milk spilled everywhere
and spattered all around.
“Pick up the glass!” the monster roared.
I picked it up with haste.
She grabbed the vessel from my hands
and had herself a taste.
“Delicious! Perfect! Just the thing!”
she munched upon my glass
as tiny shards flew from her maw
to shimmer in the grass.
And just like that, the bumpy beast
did vanish from my sight
to leave behind the baby cat
who purred with sweet delight.
And so I share this lesson with
my kitten-aiding class:
for cats intolerant to milk,
no worries. Feed them glass!