Tarik’s Cat

T

I’m a stripy ginger kitten

And my name is Tarik’s Cat.

I grew up with Tarik in 

A noisy crowded flat.

I’d zoom around the kitchen

While his mum was making bread

And when she least expected 

I ‘Geronimo!’ed her head.

I’d lurk behind the furniture,

Bite unsuspecting toes.

I’d scramble up the curtains

And pull threads in favourite clothes.

I’d strut along the table

Smashing everything in sight

And yowl at everybody

In the middle of the night.

I’d undo Nana’s knitting

(She was very cross at that)

While Tarik’s dad yelled, ‘Tarik, 

Please control your naughty cat!’

We’d lie under the covers

Like statues made of wood.

They all tried hard to find us

But no one ever could

And Tarik whispered stories

Of genies wafting by

Of magic lamps and secret caves

And carpets that could fly.

But then one day a war began.

There was nowhere to hide.

When soldiers brought their tanks and guns

We locked ourselves inside.

Explosions all around us 

Shook walls and window frames.

The neighbour’s house erupted

In a ball of smoke and flames.

There wasn’t any water.

There wasn’t any bread.

We didn’t play our naughty games,

We crouched in fear instead.

Then, suddenly, there came a jolt,

A flash of something bright. 

A piercing whine, a deafening 

Blast of thunder ripped the night.

I woke up in confusion

Buried underneath the rubble

And through the dust came voices

Crying out in desperate trouble.

Days and nights dragged endlessly.

The cries for help grew slow

And silence settled into place

As deep as winter snow.

And just when hope had faded

And things had reached their worst,

When hunger was a constant pain, 

My tongue on fire with thirst,

I felt a strange vibration,

Saw a tiny chink of white.

A hand reached in and gently

Pulled me out into the light.

I loitered at the bomb site

Miaowing Tarik’s name

But none of Tarik’s family

Nor Tarik ever came.

So I went to live with Sana

In a leaky plastic tent

Where all the other orphan kids

Who’d lost their homes were sent.

We’re waiting here for something,

I don’t know who or what,

As if it’s time for breakfast

Only someone just…forgot.

But one day Tarik might come back

When he remembers that

He used to have a naughty friend

Whose name was Tarik’s Cat.

About the author

Sharon Hammad

Sharon is a writer living in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney.

By Sharon Hammad