Sam is at my feet as I write.
His breathing more snore than purr.
His fur more rumpled than before.
Grooming seemingly becoming more of a chore.
Our crotchety old man who hovers by his bowl
and howls in protest if we’re slow to provide warm milk.
His bursts of kitten-like play with Daisy
cloud our eyes to his age. But seeing him in repose,
I’m reminded of how much of his day is spent in sleep.
Of his need to be close to a source of comfort.
He will start his day with me; greet Daisy
and nestle near her for a post breakfast nap.
He will then gravitate to his dented-in hollow
on the back of the couch in Frank’s office
to settle in while Frank works on the computer.
A furry little creature of unvarying routine
that he doesn’t like interrupted.
Feline aging bearing an uncanny resemblance to human.