my cat shit in my archives
he climbed into my Golden State Sunkist
orange box
and he shit on my poems
my original poems
saved for the university archives.
that one-eared fat black critic
he signed me off.

On Cats is a collection of musings, poetry, essays, photographs and excerpts from novels, all relating to Bukowski's love for (you guess it) cats. There's cats and there's Bukowski: you know how that works for me.

Even though Bukowski's writing is mostly associated with booze and women, but if if you're familiar with his writing, then you also know that he also loves cats and writes about them in his books.

Now here’s a beautiful cat. Its tongue hangs out, it’s cross-eyed. Its tail is chopped off. He’s beautiful, he’s got sense. We took him to the vet to have him x-rayed—he got hit by a car. The doctor says, ‘This cat’s been run over twice, he’s been shot, his tail’s been cut off.’ I said, ‘This cat is me.’ He came to the door starving to death. He knew right where to come. We’re both bums off the street.

Bukowski writes about cats with a certain melancholy. He writes about each of their tragic fates, and how he can relate to them, and loves them.

I find my place, pull into the driveway, park it, get out, just another old matador. But inside, as I open the door, my favorite white cat, The Jinx, leaps up into my arms and suddenly I am in love again.