In Loving Memory of Garfield/Gatito


What could go wrong?

You were born orange, outside a restaurant,

to an equally crazy mom, no one’s idea of a debutant.

We took you in, and you quickly took charge,

nibbling on anything that moved, our not-so-bright dog quickly named you his sarge.

You ate grasshoppers, moths, the kitchen counters you did haunt,

only fearing the spray bottle of water I would strategically flaunt.

That overconfidence, that chutzpah, likely hastened your end,

pumas you meet are night, or anytime, are rarely your friend.

You only stayed inside when you wanted to cuddle,

preferring to roam the roof, with laws regarding gravity to befuddle.

We miss you already, you cannot be replaced,

I doubt I’ll see you again, but will leave a light on just in case.

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