I had never come close to crying for a cat.
I hate them, hate the way their eyes can fill with fervent
Suspicion as they look at you and never, never look
Away, even when you yell at them like a maniac
So when Pudding was euthanized, I was surprised
By the rivulet that slinked through my feelings.
I had special reason to spite her: The fleas,
The way she tore at the rug, and her durable eyes
But she faded suddenly, which was not the first time
She had not followed my ideal of what pets
Should do. When Diane called me on the phone
The rivulet seeped briefly. We put her in a cardboard
Box. Diane wanted to bury her in our back yard.
I know how to lay pets to rest from my farm days
When it seemed we lost one puppy a week. Our lawn
Was going to look like it had never been disturbed.
I wanted the grass to sit perfectly flat once the soil
Had settled. Other cats started to gather on the bier
Ever since we put her there. They disturb the site,
Keeping it brown. Diane said they came to mourn
A comrade, but I—being so much like a cat myself
Knew that they came to dance on the grave of a rival
Cats have no sentiment and that’s what my wife
Envies about them, though she will never admit it.
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