Mighty Panther, Larry

R.I.P. My Larry Boy

My baby boy, Larry, died two days ago. Larry was my cat. He was my companion for twenty years and the last black cat in my life for more than twenty-five. I miss him dearly.


His chair sits next to mine and when I write, I’d take a few minutes every hour and slip my hand up under his blanket and stroke him. I sit here today stroking the arm of his chair. I keep expecting him to be there, but when I look, I remember.

He had a heart murmur, but has been good for two years or more. The other morning though, I’m certain he had a massive heart attack. We found him on the floor and I got to cradle my sweet boy in my arms, I got to kiss his nose, his head. I got to tell him how much he was loved.


He chose me. He looked up from the basket when he was a tiny kitten and our eyes met. The day the kittens were let out to run around, he climbed up and leaned against my ankle until I picked him up. He curled up on my lap, and there he stayed.


He loved me as much as I loved him. He would press his nose into the side of mine, and very gently, would nibble the corner of my mouth and kiss me. We would spend hours together, cuddling, kissing, stroking. I miss him very much.

He was my mighty panther that kept the nasties at bay and I miss him very much.

Pestilence

I felt inspired and when dealing with things such as this pandemic, I somehow revert to an early English dialect.

Infectious foulness, thy pestilence carries truths encased with minuscule falsehoods. Thou hast shame for thy peril, cast far and wide, for thou art thyself thought blameless upon crested mounts of ingratitude’s, and so createth thine own enemy, seen or unseen, shall thy seek to tarnish thine own true lot.

Shame is thy mask thou portrays and, through thy deception, deceive all others gaze unknowing of thy power as it doth rest in pestilence and untruths.

Shame is thy armor, deception is thy robe blame rests upon those who languish, thus fates call upon them as thou people fall to thy whims of fancy.

Upon thine own lands lays thou people in lamentations for their loss. Does thou not see? Does thou not care to see? For in seeing thou must act, but to act, is to concede thine own hand imprinted upon deaths back.

Rather thou seeks to blame another far from thy lands, than focus thou attention upon thy people in need of thy assist this day. Care not from whom thy pestilence arose, but cast thy will upon the sufferance of thine own and make well thy people seeking not hope, but accomplished contrives for thy peoples time yet to come, to make the grounds once more fertile and thy riches bloom once more.