soothing the savage beast

Mister whiskers jumps up in my lap
Does everything but hand me the comb
Ah, now it’s time!
A mutual love-in.
We both take pleasure from this ritual.
He, with his whirring motor running
and his dribbling drool
as I do the mandatory stroking.
His inner lids half closed in nirvana.
He turns to face me so I can get to more places,
when oops! wrong place.
He strikes with the swiftness of a cobra,
and I have a bloody nose now.
Little bastard.