The Lion in Winter

For twenty years he slept on my belly,

Shedding orange fur,

Spearing my nipple with a sharp claw

Purring loudly, unashamed,

His convenience and comfort

More important than my passing pain.

As a kitten, he scaled

My bare legs,

Daggerlike claws

Spearing flesh,

So cute I let him get away with it,

A pattern that dominated our shared life.

As an adult, he ruled the neighborhood,

A massive, orange furred predator,

Feared by every dog and cat,

Beloved by every person,

Who fed him, had their own name for him,

But he always came back to me and my belly.

He trained everyone in the house,

To put soft pillows around,

To leave cups of water in the bathroom and on the coffee table,

To provide wet and dry food prepared just so,

And finally, his piece de resistance,

He got his own room.

He trained our dogs as backup—

All he had to do was let out a yowl

And our German shepherd and beagle

Would burst through the gate, onto the street

And corner his assailant—

That cat had bodyguards.

One Sunday, wheezing,

He climbed onto my belly,

Purred loudly,

Fell asleep,

Jerked a few times

And was gone.

I still find fur,

Random bits of cat food,

A scratch mark,

But when I sit to relax,

My belly feels naked,

Missing purrs and sharp claws.