In Remembrance

of our departed feral feline friends

Scrawny Ronny

Returning home, exhausted from the hike,

I saw your little form, a round of black

Reposed too still for sleep. I tend to like

To hold to hope until a fact or lack

Thereof persuades otherwise, but I knew

The truth: another kill, you sprang before

You looked, a puddle of piss left in lieu

Of extra years and more substantial gore.

You liked and trusted people, feline fool,

But see how long you live: a year for cats

Who dwell outside is commonly the rule.

If you had trusted less, perhaps . . . but that’s

Conjecture.  Never mind.  Your act is done.

Cat lives are short; yours scarcely had begun.