Leo’s Last Weekend?

Suddenly, he cannot walk

only a few steps without falling

his hind feline legs not agreeing anymore to be a part of the whole.

He does his level best to get to his box to do the necessary things,

and he almost does. Almost. And instead lies in a pool, eyes wide dark and deep.

I say to the dog sitting on the couch, “I think our friend Leo is not with us much longer,” and she blinks, those huge brown eyes, those eyes set in a body just finished with seven months of chemo.

I look into these eyes, placid and accepting, and I wonder where and when the wisdom I strain to find was infused without effort, perhaps at midnight between a day like this of snow and wind, and the following day of cold and light.

Leo, the cat of 21 years and some, companion of mother Mary and given me to serve these last six years. I’ve done the best I could, old friend, though I fear it has been rarely enough.

Thank you for being exactly whom you were meant to be, every moment of every day. Ahead (there must be a place ahead), I bid you flourish again.

If you must go.

Leo the Lion 1999 – still holding on tonight

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