7/5/20, 8:16 PM,  ♫ - Miúcha & Tom Jobim -- Saia do Caminho https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqTFq5EDywc

You know how I always talk about life being a poem and things like that? I have another one to add. 

My cat, Poe, died recently, went out like he usually does but never came home. He was getting old, and it was his time. 

That’s not the interesting part though, the interesting part were the months leading up to his death, Poe was a very regal cat, he was a grey cat with a little white Charlie Chaplin mustache and an elegant demeanor, he rarely meowed, instead waiting patiently for you to acknowledge him, contrast with my other cat, his sister Bella, more bratty and diva-like, who meowed as soon as she entered the room until someone tended to her needs. 

Poe got an inner infection a few months before he passed, it completely ruined his equilibrium and gave him bad vertigo, the regal, elegant, aristocratic kitty was reduced to a meek, stumbling husk of his former self. 

The poetry of it wasn’t lost on me, that what you’re most known for, your defining characteristics, are what will be tested, and subsequently stripped away from you in the most trying times. Your crutches, the things you hinge on. Life is a comedy, until it’s a tragedy.

Now Bella can’t meow, she’s hoarse. Like a little croak, barely anything comes out. They’re old as far as cats go, over 10 years old at this point, but visibly she’s young and tiny, the runt of the litter. 

Bella, the bratty loudmouth diva cat, now barely able to make a sound. The poetry isn’t lost on me. 

I’m going to miss her when she’s gone.