Mao was my first-ever cat. He was my "little lion," a fierce, solemn, majestic beast. He was about 9 years old when I got him, and we had 5 blessed years together.
Mao had just turned 14 when he lost a 6-week battle with lymphosarcoma (the same disease that Patrick had). I've tried to express my feelings about him in this poem.
What I Said to Mao
(beloved brown tabby,
1982 - 1996)
Mao,
I love your feet
because they bring you near,
dissolving our separateness
with each gentle tread.
I love your purr,
because it gurgles like a little spring,
bathing us both
in warm, drowsy waves.
I love your skin,
because it shelters your flesh and bone
and shapes your elegance.
I love your breath,
because it bears the subtlest trace
of your innermost fires
as it whispers against my hand.
I love your eyes,
because when I look into them
I see deep into the dark, rich night.
.
