The Battalion Cat

It probably isn't classified information that my company line houses a black-and-white cat, who is always around when we fall in or clean our rifles or whatnot and hanging about hopefully for scraps when not licking its own tail... except of course if some infiltrator comes in, guts the poor bugger and finds the top-secret confidential docs half-digested therein... and not forgetting the subequent turning-in of the Admin IC who'd say "Sir, the cat ate my homework" and getting it for the excuse. (Sorry, Glen)

I suspect, however, that the Battalion Cat prefers fresh rations to mission briefs, for it shows up always whenever we're eating dinner at the first floor, where he would rub itself up someone's smelly slacks, lick the oil off a machine gun, bother the inmates trainees and fraternise with the sergeants. As we fell in to ranks, he would be there eyeballing us with tired looks, later resigning to licking himself at various places, at the same time blissfully unaware and splendidly distracting.

Some of us enjoy his company; others resign to kicking him away, though all things considered, this fella is like a carefree island in a hectic ocean, like a stable beacon atop a lighthouse guiding ships through freezing tempests. No one can expect him to fight alongside us. No one can tell him to fall in and report strength. No one can accuse him of chao keng when he does... but, all that notwithstanding, the Battalion Cat lazes squarely in our family, a respected senior member, a sentinel.