Love Letter To Seattle

Pushkin
by Marjorie Kowalski Cole

The old cat sleeps
in the newly arrived sun. One more spring
has come his way
dropping a solar bath
on failing kidneys, old cat bones.
I check for the rise and fall of breath.

Once he stalked hares
across the yard, tracked down
chicken hearts with split-lentil eyes.
Fearless, disinterested, a poseur, a demideity.
He and the dog are strangers still
after years of eating side by side.

I remember times of wailing
into my couch, alone
and utterly baffled by life,
when suddenly a cat
would be sitting on my head.

Last week I pulled him snarling
from under a chair in Dr. Bacon's office,
held him while she examined his dull coat,
felt his ribs. Pressed where it hurt.
Eight pounds of fur and bone and mad as hell
but "He's certainly less anxious in your lap,"
she murmured, astonishing me.
I had no idea. Old cat, old friend,
have I reached some place inside,
added to your life
as you have to mine?

I first saw this poem on the Itty Bitty Kitty Committee website over a year ago, and it struck a cord with me then.  And now I'm drawing comfort from it this week.  I said goodbye to my sweet Frank this week.  Although he hasn't been well in over a year, and I've been preparing myself for his passing for quite awhile, I still get teary eyed as I write this.  He was my constant companion and shadow of mine around the house for the last 9 years.  We've been through so much together, and he was always by my side with a soft nuzzle to let me know he was there.  He slept by my side at night for 9 years, and I'll miss him.  He was my little guy, my Frizzle.