Cleaned my office today, and as I ran the dust rag over the photo of my li'l kitty, a lump formed in my throat. Though she's been gone nearly six years, I still miss her. Lots.
She wasn't an easy feline to love. At least, not for most folks. For a reason only Mouser knows, she 'took' to me, right from the get-go. The "keep away or else!" behavior displayed toward others? She was quite the opposite with me.
And so, nostalgia prompted me to pen a poem. (Bear with me; rhyming ain't my thing!):
No Cats in Hell
Once I had a little cat
and Mouser was her name.
Every day, in every way,
that cat, she was the same.
She'd carry on and fuss and spit
and whine and mew and fume,
making life a living heck...
...or so one would assume.
But she was like a pinch of salt
when life-like stew--was bland.
That's why God sent her to me
with her recipe so grand.
A taste is all I needed,
and that is what He planned.
Then one day He said to her
"Now you've salted Loree's stew;
it's time I take you home again,
'cuz I've got plans for you.
So tiptoe up into her lap
and lick her on the cheeks,
like the Eskimo way of saying 'bye'
when they are feeling weak.
And one more thing," God intoned,
"be sure you let her know
how much you enjoyed the Fancy Feast
and other gifts bestowed
by the gal who was your dearest pal
and loved you oh so well.
Let her know you'll be in heaven,
cuz there are no cats in hell."