Reelin in the Years…with a Senior Cat

I had been recently complaining about…getting old, not being rich…mistakes made.  And, though, at the ripe old age of 15, my cat should know all my insecurities by now. …He just turned his back to me!

His thought bubble?

“You been tellin’ me you’re a genius since you were seventeen.  In all the time I’ve known you…I still don’t know what you mean.”

Litter of Seniors

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I take note as we age, the animals and myself. Not too much deliberation.  Feline etiquette abhors self-pity.  Thus, the Cats being their own divinity.

My wife has gone to parts known.

Errands to be run about town.

And, with certainty, this is her home.

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I am left to my own devices with one dangling carrot…
An aged four-legged friend, amid her last leg of the tour.
We have met once or twice, of that I am sure.
But with good discretion I must admit,
She owns my wife…
I am just the half wit.
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A poet left alone to mind her thoughts…
Cannot help but wonder in this unusually quiet time,
‘What do these animals think…as I… slowly lose my ‘spice for life?
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As I tender these ransomed reflections…
there is no room for disregarded affection.
Whether upon expiration or other times of sullied misdirection.
No pardon is given when decorum is given to exemption.
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A feline stalks her life with great self-regard.
To be, intrinsic to a cat of older years
One must postpone their own fears.
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For what is a cat, but a private resident to self-love.
Those befriended by one…take heed to rigid examination.
Young or old,
Lynx or stray,
To feel poorly of oneself is simply an emotion…
that gets in the way.
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