I last held
his tabby furred body
That worried look with the “M” eyebrows
won me over first glance.
But he fled upon first seeing me
then returned, time and time again.
Hunger always conquers fear.
Eventually he fell in love with me…
and I him.
I saw that clearly one day,
when I called for him:
and out of the vast expanse of countryside
his black banded tail held high
wound its quick way ziggzagging a path
through dense rosemary groundcover
until his worried face looked up at mine
as if to say, “Here I am here I am here I am.”
Nine short years with that dear cat.
The last year hard, good & bad, up & down
fighting chronic kidney disease.
But those were our closest days.
Those were the days when
his personality soared and expanded.
His talkative meows vibrated through the walls
of our large home, now in suburbia,
where he was safe from the coyote dense wilds
only to be attacked by disease.
We played and cuddled, he purred and purred loudly.
I recorded that purr for later.
I knew I would miss hearing it.
I’d hoped it would bring him closer
during the forever days thereafter.
We were given an extra year…
I held him for as long as grace allowed.
I struggle to find poetics in his death, even after ten years.
But his life was an eloquent soliloquy on catdom
and I… I was his honored patron.