Cuddles really weren’t your thing,

But never mind, for you did bring
Us laughter, from your leaving hairs
In wet paint as you ran upstairs,
Once you put Dad in his place,
When you knocked his glasses off his face
And sent them flying on the floor,
We laughed ‘til we could laugh no more.

And who can forget when you did dare
To sleep in Dad’s most favourite chair,
He didn’t see as down he sat,
Claws from our affronted cat,
‘Yow!’ he cried and jumped up smart,
Whilst rubbing his affected part,
We knew who ruled the Gibson house,
But you hardly ever caught a mouse.

For you, dear Fluffy, were so well fed,
You’d have your fill and go straight to bed,
Or maybe try another door,
Where a lovely lady fed you more,
Not knowing where you did belong,
Although you knew that it was wrong,
Eventually you were found out,
Was it chicken, or was it trout?

We cried buckets the day you went,
For to us you were heaven-sent,
For sixteen years we loved you so,
Then came time for you to go
To a joyful place, without pain,
Where you could run up trees again,
Or maybe chase a bird or two
Like younger days, you used to do.

It’s been some years since you were here
And each December we shed a tear,
For that is when you had to leave,
The time when we were forced to grieve,
Your haughty stare we can’t forget,
For in the lounge your picture’s set,
Where beneath your gaze a new cat sits,
Her name’s Molly, who we love to bits.

© David Gibson, 2018