To hold his still-warm body in my hands
As I buried him
He was only six years old.
A black Bath neutered moggy with piercing golden eyes.
Malignancy of the bone marrow.
Something like what I have myself.
He was my little dog.
An independent cat of character.
Never happier than roaming outside.
He came and went through his catflaps as he pleased.
Didn't eat much.
Pinched his food outside.
But at night he would come
And cuddle up beside me in my chair.
When dying he picked his spot.
A corner of the living room
From where he could see all that was going on.
And he waited for death.
I loved him.