We put a cat down
Soon after Christmas.
Bug, one of the oddest cats
We’ve ever had. Bug. Our Bug.
My poetic “WickedyWoo”. To us,
Just, Bug, and so much more.

Waif-come, rescued by a then
Younger oldest daughter, from
Under a rain-shielding garbage bin,
Bug came to live, the baby of five or six;
I don’t remember, right now, they, cats,
Continue to die, and add up. Cat souls.
They live, and lovingly haunt, in look-a-loo
Numbers, my adult home, due to my kids.

Bug’s tiny tail was skrinked, his body gened
With Siamese, hosting orangey tips to his
Ears, paws, nose and tail. My kids had school,
So I was the mother, as usual, to this bit of life,
As usual. I didn’t mind. I think his first name was Sheldon,
But, after a few days of kitten-love observation,
I proclaimed him Bug. Ha! How true I didn’t know…
Later on, when allowed outside, he would fly
At the back screen door, and cling on with all ten claws,
Peering and piercing at me with his bug-blue eyes.

A scamperous kitten, he flew hither and thither
Constantly! His soft-bright blue eyes whacked,
Almost scarily! My warm weather legs and arms,
Innocently sitting in the computer chair, were
Criss-crossed by his crazy rampages, many times
Causing me to shriek, aloud! Especially when he
Went after my shoulders, from the table behind me,
In the frenzy of poetic, drunk nights. If I could have done
The same to him, with him, then, in retrospect, I would have!

I’m a human being, aged by aging cognizance. But,
So was Bug, aged by cognizance. Not ours, his own. He saw
Such things, growing up, they made me gasp! Unimaged-self-wise,
But aware, as I watched him. His gaze never left over-there, most times,
Until it came to food, always food, or love, or just a meowing chat
About what he’d recently seen, outside. He was the pestiest thing,
When he wanted your attention, he’d mew-yowl, pathetically, below
Your feet, or in your face. When you wanted his attention,
It depended on his thoughts, at the most! Or, the least.

At the time Bug was young, I watched cats, flowers, rabbits,
Ants, wind, dragons, storms, chickens, spiders and passing desert years,
As part of family life. Bug loved it all, every bit! In his way. His eyes
Would light with paling brilliance, his body would shift, he would be
In one spot one moment, above me in the tree, in the next moments I’d lost
While writing. But, Bug had a problem, with his guts. He couldn’t just eat
Two meals a day, he had to have many, small bits and pieces and juices licked
Off. He lived on constant nibbles, and it worried me. Not at first, not so much,
But half his life later, after the summer of 2005, he started getting ‘buggie’.

I know I've started to sing-song this poem, I feel better sometimes, when I rhyme.
And, Bug’s life, as a perceived unique-soul, so enriched my own, it has to be told.
I’d often thought the quink in his tail and his stomach proclivities were due
To the same thing. A Man became aware, in an officious way, his life would
Be better if he kicked out the rabble, the kittens of his undesired. I couldn’t stop
Seeing a door crash upon a kitten fleeing, injuring his wayfaring body, but, still
In all, it could have been genes… Our Vet couldn’t tell.

Bug went his way, more and more, as his innards visions prodded him faster,
Metabolism worn and tattered, couldn’t stop the weakness in his system. Or,
Even, he was poisoned. A couple of our cats are experiencing, off and on, eye
Weird conditions, even the new baby, over the last three months. Bug’s illness
Wracked his fragile intestinal track. After two separated antibiotics, his constant
Diarrhea lessened, but, never went away. My work-inclined husband hated it,
My oldest daughter endured most of it. I? I understood.

Buggies eyes became paler, though still concentrated on what others would not
See, mostly, it seemed, inside, where the hurt was. He relapsed just before Christmas,
Again, started biting his flanks, pulling fur out. I wanted to do the same, but
Felt I had none left… Bug’s gone, now. Yet, out of the corner of my eye, the
Other night, I saw his lightened form jump up to the counter for his favorite treat,
Uncovered butter! I instantly yelled “Hey!”, knowing it was him, turned my chair
To look and scold, and nothing was there. Except as a ghost. And a smile.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 1/6/08
Photograph by Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 5/10/05