After days of groggy sloppiness, in your last hours,
you developed a longing for water.
It wasn’t merely a physical thing, a technicality,
irrigating the realms of your sickness.
Dutifully, I had read up on some medical stuff,
preparing for the one thing life always delivers in the end.
Thus far, the internets had predicted quite accurately
what form the shattering of my hope for your welfare would take.
So, some longing was to be expected,
but not this, a craving that opened the floodgates,
a galloping thirst for the unknown.
In one headlong caper you lashed out at that sea of sorrow,
defying it, joyfully flying your feline zest in the face of death.
And then, under the sloshing impact of that darned
rosy-fingered dawn, delicate crudeness
dripping from the walls of my woeful tank,
I found myself crying out for a life jacket.
Not to save you from dying, for I knew I could not,
but to save me from drowning, there, on the spot.
The funny thing of course being that *you* did not drown at all.
Instead, you deftly swam across, tail swishing, head high,
your beloved duffel coat heaving, tearing me up inside.