R.I.P. Moe, 1999-2006




















What lies below should explain the situation pretty well. I don't want to dwell on it too much at this point in time.


Dying Alone

I wish I could have been there when you died.
Part of me knows it's better this way;
Would it really make me feel better to have been there
When your neck snapped,
When the blood flowed from your lifeless mouth
When the dogs left your broken body on the ground?
Would seeing your suffering have eased my own?

My bitter self mutters
That dumb cat
Would have gotten himself killed anyway.
Nothing you could have done, kid.
My kind self murmurs
You gave him six years' worth of life
That he may not have lived otherwise.
Be glad that he's at peace.
My rational self muses
Cats don't live that long anyway,
And he's been pretty sick--well,
At least it was...fairly...quick.

Quick and painful.

And when my father found you
He laid you to rest in a grave of red Virginia clay
With a headstone made of cinderblocks
And my old tire swing.
So when I go home for Thanksgiving
I can give thanks that your fragile bones are buried
Beneath the emblem of my childhood.
Rest well, and do not wake,
For those above you are doomed
To a much greater pain.