Without Whiskey

The first year after my 16 year old cat died.

A year of days without you.
A year of nights without you.

No more cosy rainy afternoons.
No more cuddling reading and purring.
No more glares from a cold radiator.
No little fleece lying waiting only for you.
No need to leave the bedroom door open now.
No need for cat milk.
No lilac food plate in the kitchen.
No silver water bowl for madam.
No more litter to clean up,
(I never thought I’d miss that, but I do)

Less and less fur on my clothes.
A solitary claw sheath now and then.
No new rips in the wallpaper.
The sofa will stay half-shredded.
The bedpost will count no more scratches.
You didn’t get time to claw this duvet cover.

No more stray catnip mice around this house.
No more flying leaps onto my head at night.
No more tripping me up in the doorways.
No more running to me when I whistle.
It’s no fun singing ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’
without you here to stare in shock and disgust –
(and sometimes, I think, a little admiration)
I wonder if you miss the poetry readings too.
Or do you stop by sometimes?
I think you do.

A year of days and nights without you.
No more “me&cat” – no more you.

There will be many years without you,
this was just the first.
The years without you will never
take away the years we had.

(thank you my little darling – sleep peacefully)

 

© Morney Wilson

Reviews

[Stonewall]

All that I can say to this poem is 'Awwww.' I have a puppy, and one day I am sure I will love all the destructive behaviour that goes along with her. I loved the part about Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. The way a pet looks at us at times like those is exactly how you have described it, though I tend to think it leans mostly towards disgust. Well done.