It occurs to me Two Thousand-Three
Is a year I can't ignore,
This is the year I turn twelve, you see,
Which, in human years, is sixty-four.
I don't mind growing older,
Cause when I get old enough to die,
I'll just keep coming back again,
I have so many lives.
On my last trip 'cross the Rainbow Bridge
You'll not see me shed tears,
Though before I go, I'd like to know
Why us Cats never got Our Year.

The Chinese are very honorable,
And they surely love their pets,
They dedicate whole years to them,
Out of devotion and respect.
Their calendars show The Year of The Pig,
And also The Year of The Dog,
And I wouldn't be a bit surprised,
That there's even The Year of The Frog.
 But I've searched the Chinese calendars,
And there's no Year of The Cat, my friend,
My nose is out of joint,
I am saddened and chagrined.

There's The Year of The Tiger and Lion,
And The Year of The Ugly Rat,
But nowhere can I find
The Year of The Pussy-Cat.
I cannot help but wonder,
Will The Year of The Cat come in time,
For me to be so honored,
While I'm alive and in my prime?
A well known fact about us Cats
Is that our number of lives is Nine,
But the Year of The Cat, they say, is One,
By the Chinese Calendar's time.

Wise Chinese have been consulted
And they have no disparity,
"Ah, so," they say, while nodding,
And, as one, they all agree.
They've used Kung Fu and Tai Chi, too,
And they still are of one mind,
Alas! Alack! Poor Pussy Cat!
The Year of The Cat's not Nine.
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright July 2003