Sunday Stanza: Buttercup, the Clinic Queen


She strutted in a cardboard box,

Like royalty in exile—

With whiskers twitchin’, sass for miles,

And claws that filed your file.

An orange streak of sass and fire,

A marmalade she-devil—

Could purr and snuggle sweet as pie,

Then turn pure, unholy rebel.

The neighbor kids, a mean ol’ pack,

Had hearts as dry as dust—

One took a shot, the pellet hit,

And robbed her tail’s full thrust.

We patched her up, she healed up strong,

Though now she’s got a nub—

But she holds it high, a feline flag,

Still queen of her lil’ club.

She spends her days inside the clinic,

Lyin’ square on charts and screens,

She’ll swat your pen, your hand, your soul,

Then cuddle like she’s clean.

She stalks the rabbits just for sport,

With eyes like pistol sights—

But never draws; she just enjoys.

Their bunny-burstin’ frights.

She struts among the hens and ducks,
A queen amid the crew—
They chatter like a feathered court,
All loyal through and through.

But don’t you dare assume she’s soft,

That tail nub ain’t defeat—

She’s still the queen, the sass supreme,

With purrs and claws complete.

So, raise a hand for Buttercup,

A diva, tough and spry—

Clinic cat, survivor, sass machine,

With fire in her eye.