The Artist’s Cat Critiques His Work

I cannot tell if he approves,
those cool eyes give nothing away.
Perhaps he does not recognise
his parents' portraits on display.

I start to sketch him where he sits,
include his shadow on the wall.
Until his tail begins to swish,
a sign he's had enough of all.

His patience with my paints wears thin,
I dare not risk his critic's claws.
He scratched a canvas once, in spite,
or maybe pointing out its flaws.

No harsher critic have I had,
cares not one whit how long I slog.
He yawns, and sprays my latest work.
I knew I should have got a dog.