Welcome back, furriends and fellow literary loungers. Today we’re looking at a poem that had me leaping from the windowsill in startled delight. It’s wild. It’s fast. It’s messy. It’s “Cat Scat” by Eamon Grennan – and furriends, this one moves.
From the title alone, you know this isn’t a quiet meditation on moonlight and toe beans. No, this is a poem about the chaos, joy, and sheer physicality of being a cat when the zoomies hit at full volume.
Let’s dig in.
A Look at “Cat Scat” by Eamon Grennan
I am watching Cleo listening, our cat
listening to Mozart’s Magic Flute. What
can she be hearing? What
can the air carry into her ears like that,
her ears swivelling like radio dishes that
are tuned to all the noise of the world, flat
and sharp, high and low, a scramble of this and that
she can decode like nobody’s business, acrobat
of random airs as she is? Although of course a bat
is better at it, sifting out of its acoustic habitat
the sound of the very shape of things automat–
ically—and on the wing, at that. The Magic Flute! What
a joy it is, I feel, and wonder (to the end this little scat)
does, or can, the cat.
My Thoughts
First of all: this poem gets it. Truly gets it. The poem’s energy isn’t smooth and formal—it skitters. Darts. Changes direction mid-sentence like a cat spotting a shadow on the wall.
The speaker begins with Cleo listening to The Magic Flute, but almost immediately, the poem spins out into speculation, sound, and chaos—just like a zoomie episode.
her ears swivelling like radio dishes…
Oh yes. This is the truth of feline focus. We are not passive listeners. We are tuned, locked in, ears flicking like sonar arrays, scanning the airwaves for meaning.
And then there’s the line:
acrobat / of random airs…
Chef’s kiss. That’s not a metaphor. That’s a job description.
The poem doesn’t bother trying to explain what the cat hears. It just rides the rhythm, the tumbling sense of motion and mystery—and that’s exactly what we do when we chase something invisible at 3:17 a.m.
But let’s talk accuracy.
Although of course a bat is better at it…
Look, I won’t argue. Bats are impressive. But cats? We’re multitaskers. We can hear, sprint, leap, knock over a lamp, and land on a windowsill with zero shame—all within eight seconds.
The Magic Flute! What / a joy it is…
This feels like an actual moment. A person and a cat, sitting in shared joy—each interpreting the same sound in a different way. One hears melody. The other hears magic.
The poem ends in a tangle of language:
does, or can, the cat.
Which feels exactly like trying to write a poem while a cat skids across your keyboard.
A Tribute: “Three A.M. Sonata”
A poem by Tyson the Cat
A shadow stirs me.
Curtain shiver. Floor too still.
The night must know me.
One leap—then two more.
I chase the scent of thunder
up the hallway walls.
The humans don’t rise.
But in their dreams, I whisper:
This is what freedom sounds like.
Leap First, Interpret Later
“Cat Scat” is not a polite poem. It’s not one to read while sipping tea and stroking your whiskers thoughtfully. It is a poem to sprint through. To launch off the couch with. To knock over a houseplant and call it “interpreting the text.”
Grennan doesn’t just write about cats—he feels cat. The motion. The mystery. The sudden leap for no apparent reason. (Which always has a reason, by the way. You just can’t see it.)
Your Turn, Furriends!
Have you ever gone full Mozart-and-mayhem at midnight? Do you respond to music—or do you just use it as background for your dramatic arcs? Share your zoomiest insights in the comments below.
Purrs and airborne paws,
Tyson 🐾
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