Booties

Booties is dead.

I saw him go in peace.

His eyes locked with mine.

He was calm and innocent.

Not a meow or a flinch.

He seemed to lay lifeless on the table even before injected.

His tumor now the size of an eggplant.

His body frail.

He wasn’t able to drink for days.

A 22 pound cat now a 4 pound skeleton.

His bony structure unstable on four feet.

His drive to explore still there.

Curious as can be.

Dehydrated into nothingness.

Sadness.

A decomposing filth.

His stench was an invitation to death.

Now dead.

© 2001 David Greg Harth

01.10.19.01:29:13@296NYC