It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.
Fairs Fur Dorrit takes her turn on the leather One hundred and twelve, the auld bleather She has pockled about The back-door in and out I think she’s depressed by the weather
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Okay..... well, we certainly weren't mourning the loss of the kitty kitty. Twas sensitive of him to bury the cat on an icy day- -the ground was it frozen deep, making it hard to pierce it with a shovel? I guess you could call it an act of compassion that he made sure the cat wasn't outlived by those fleas he couldn't be bothered to flea shampoo off her or flea collar off her. At least the cat had a box...
It makes sense to burn the box and not bring the fleas in the house. You animal worshipers are all as idiotic as can be. The cat died he buried it. Back in the 1950s or perhaps before that when this was written there may not have been flea shampoo on sale for pets. DId you ever think of that.