Kitty sleeps in her lap

After drinking a tea nightcap…

Both are older, grayer

And answers to his prayer,

And both nod off with energies sapped.

The kitten is but seventeen years-old,

His lady old enough to not be told…

These are his final days

Skinnier in ways,

His temperature shifts ‘tween hot and cold.

He is the first of our six or seven,

To be kept in when it was time for leaving…

Seeing a loved pet fail,

Sharing in his travail

It is too late to avoid heavy grieving.

An appointment with his doctor is tomorrow,

To end his suffering if not our sorrow…

His hindquarters stand

Barely on command,

He pulls himself up to gain his laurels.

The man will leave the two of them at home,

While he must do what men must do, alone…

He wonders what he’ll find

At morning’s first bell chime,

Will suffering end…leaving grievous moaning?

–Jonathan Caswell




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