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.
💕