The little black and white cat named Pretty
and I
have shared fourteen and a half years.
We have gotten older and fatter together.
Only lately
she gets thinner.
Much, much thinner.
I sometime call her "little feets."
She know I am speaking of her.
Returning from an errand,
I call out her name.
She does not come.
Once she was the first to the door.
I find her, at last,
upstairs on my bed.
I call out again as I approach the bed;
only half in greeting.
Looking up, she extends first one paw
and then the other,
for me to hold
while we greet each other.
First with nose rubs
and then with gentle head bumps.
Her black and white fur,
deceptively thick,
glistens.
Another nose rub
and I head downstairs
to greet the others,
young and old.
But none so old.
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