For Scooter.
Writing is meant to help.
So I just wrote this.
For Scooter
That last night
you slept on my windowsill,
snug on a cushion of foam and fur.
Hot water bottle at your back,
to guard you from the cold
of the glass.
That last day
you stayed there,
stretched long and soft in the late summer sun,
till, too warm, you
climbed down half way,
then cried.
(Just a little cry,
as you paused and looked at me,
there to help you balance if you fell.)
I held you,
guided you down,
took your weight.
You staggered a little,
and looked around for somewhere to lay;
on a pillow - too soft;
on a blanket - too warm;
no, no need for luxury or choice now.
Settled, then -mostly fallen-
on a shaded patch of floor.
Aware of our attentions,
but no longer greeting them,
you rested, dazed and dozing...
You did not hear the vet arrive,
nor the young assistant -so full of life-
when I let them in and led them to you.
"This doesn't look good," he said.
I'm sorry I let him wake you,
that should have been me.
It should have been me that lifted you, held you,
at least at first.
Instead, what did I do?
What did you see me rush to?
-I blocked the routes of your escape,
with boxes, books and bags.
I'd seen you eye the corner behind the curtain, you see.
Forgive me.
I know you were not ready.
Now, deep in autumn soil you lay,
with your sisters near you.
A blanket,
a pillowslip,
a few favourite toys.
I spent so many years keeping you warm,
I cannot bear the coldness of the soil surrounding you.
Wept, I have wept a hundred thousand tears.
I'd made a bargain, you see,
with whatever it is that holds the Good, the Love, the Life together in the universe;
Take a year off what's due to be my lot,
I said,
and give it to him;
Take his pain, his weariness, his cancer,
and give it to me.
It seems that nothing was there to listen,
or, if hearing,
was powerless or cruel.
You left so many things behind, you know.
In every room I see you.
Combs, boxes, blankets and beds bought on special days,
Food bowls, water bowls,
the rug known to be 'yours'.
Toys and packets of catnip,
cushions for in and out of doors.
It's as though
you've just nipped out
- be back in a minute, mum!
Little by little
I part with part of your life.
I cover the catflap
to stop the wind from teasing me.
I light candles on your grave each night
and buy flowers to plant there.
I don't know what else to do,
except to reach down through the mud and stones and touch you again
- that way lies madness.
They tell me that you wouldn't have felt betrayed.
They say that you let go with ease
and that this was a gift I gave you.
If so, it is a costly one.
I long to hold you, hear you purr,
and brush your chin the way you loved.
But all is gone now.
My own hands have put these things away now, out of reach.
My shattered heart will heal,
they say,
I'll remember you with smiles
one day.
I hope you do the same for me,
If only, somewhere,
you still "Be"...........
