Hey old man, Do you ever look for my obituary like I occasionally look for yours? Just to know if I’m still breathing, not to venture near my door?
I’d still welcome you with open arms if you tilted with a hey, But be forewarned, the pain you wrought has rendered me insane.
I set her free. It took an open window, a trail of treats, and Max on top of the porch chair reassuring her at the sill to lure her out of the house.
Now before all you cat peeps freak out, please know that long legged munchkin is feral as can be… wants absolutely nothing to do with humans. We trapped and released her indoors last Fall when she was only a few months old, thought being that she would make a nice pet for two young girls who were wanting a kitty cat to love on, but there is just something wild in her that flat out refused to become domesticated.
Oh, she got used to me… but not enough to let me touch her or anything. Most of her days were spent hiding in the cellar, waiting for Max, or sneaking around the house pretending to be invisible while constantly watching me, always on guard, ready to flee.
What kind of life is that? I had to let her go, had to set her free.
Fireworks lit the sky
Laced with little lies,
I’m too dry-eyed to cry
Are you still mad at me?
It is hanging on, uprooted and replanted for a third time. I am like this vine, with the appearance of being half dead deceptive. Life still flows through the dried out twigs, follow the path to green leaves and blooms.
The plant went to my sister’s in Salem, Ohio, when I moved into a high rise apartment building without any outdoor space of my own in Youngstown. She later moved to Michigan, left the plant with her son. Then my mother dug it up and brought it up after I bought a house on the south side. The vet helped her plant it near the concrete angel that, I assume, marks the grave of an unknown pet. And it is, despite appearance, hanging on… still alive.
I’ve yet to plant Mr. Marsberry, his ashes still in a can.