The cat

There's this cat that's been hanging around my house. Lounging on the porch in full view of Puck and on the front steps blocking my path. He's older, has long, sparse fur and is rail-thin.
He has a look about him, though. Obviously he's either sick or come on some hard times. He's not hale and hearty like Puck. But he's got this look of past might. Sad eyes tell a tale of glory and woe. I started wondering about his name. I could only think of "king" in various languages. Then I thought of Oedipus and his wandering the countryside a broken grotesque. I wondered if something equally horrible happened to my new furry neighbor. If "Roi" had befallen a terrible fate and exiled himself as his own cruel punishment.
A fallen king. An exiled grotesque plagued by his past strength and nobility. A one-was. Who are you, my Roi? Teasing the young man in a cage because you've lost all other ways to make yourself mighty. Blocking my path to cry for attention in a moment of tired weakness- a beggar king.
I named him Roi to avoid the English and Greek associations. I wonder if he understood that I've given him permission to lounge on my steps and porch? I know he understood and appreciated my friendly scratch on the head, anyway. Always be nice to beggar-kings.

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