They are now eight.
How can a creature of eight years
be "senior"?
They eat "senior" food.
They go for annual "senior" exams.

My other cat
(companion of my adult life)
lived to be nineteen.
If eight means "senior,"
what was she?

I am fifty-eight,
a week from fifty-nine.
What am I?

We await word
of the health status
of one of these two "seniors:":
is he asthmatic?
Does he have bronchitis?
Is it something worse?

I hold him and put my hand to his chest;
he puts his paws on my face.
I say,
"Let me take whatever it is from you.
Let it be mine instead.
I can communicate what is happening,
and they can cure me.
Give me your illness–your cough–
your dis-ease.
Let me do this for you."

I want this small,
innocent,
beautiful,
trusting,
silky,
black body
to be whole.

I want him
to have eleven more years
of naps and moth-hunts,
pink-tongue grooming,
and cuddling with his brother. 

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.