To Cleo

A young cat came into the garden this morning, skulking because he knew the territory wasn’t his. The owner was away on a long journey you see, so he could linger for a while and roll in the sun. He didn’t see me watching and being reminded of the old girl, who once frolicked and chased butterflies on that same grass when she was young.

He was lucky she wasn’t there. Cleo was her name, and though small she would have soon let him know of her displeasure, and with flailing claws sent him on his way. Then, licking imagined wounds, and with ruffled pride she would have settled back down again in the sun to fight another day. Until she lost the final battle that took her from us, forever.

He knew none of this, and didn’t care that it had once belonged to another, though he was very wary and could smell the void. Half expecting to be harangued at any moment he constantly cast an eye for the owner, or was it that he sensed her watching from afar.

Still now after all these years, my heart hangs heavy, and tearfully I sit here drawn back to her memory. From that timid little kitten, that hid behind the furniture when she first came to us, she grew into a loving pet that gave us many years of pleasure and fun. The children adored her, and grew up with her always being there, to chase, cuddle and tease with a ball of wool.

Eventually she tired of playing and became the sedate old lady that just wanted to curl up on a knee, and be stroked. She lived long enough to meet and be loved by our grandchildren, and sparked the desire for them to have their own pets. You want to warn them not to, to protect them from the day they’ll have their own hearts broken, but that’s impossible.

After all would I have all those sweet memories erased, to save me from these tears? No I wouldn’t, they are too precious.

Thank you Cleo.