On Being Bart

The short, better life of a rescued cat.

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Mew doesn’t knock anything onto the floor.

He doesn’t play games; doesn’t stare out the door.

He’ll climb down a cat tree but never climb up.

Though they keep their distance, he still scares our pup

(who’s a sweetheart, but learned from our previous cat

that a feline will scratch your nose, so, That was That).

We don’t know his age, but he’s clearly not young;

he was found in the street, looking like he was flung

from a car through the air—some patches were bare,

leaving parts of one side and his tail without hair.

Our vet’s son had found him and took him to mom

(she’s our daughter’s mentor) who asked with aplomb

whether we’d take him in since he had FIV

(it’s contagious to other cats, not you and me).

We agreed since our previous cat passed away

just a few months before, and though Mew was a stray

he was clearly not feral; he stumbled toward us

for attention and comfort without any fuss.

Since he had no collar and hadn’t been chipped,

his name wasn’t known, so he wasn’t equipped

with a handle to call him (though he doesn’t care,

he responds to his name as if he isn’t there).

The vet called him Sunny, his orange tabby coat,

matted, tangled, and dirty, still seemed to promote

affirmations of hope he’d recover and thrive

and though all skin and bones, seeming barely alive

with the thyroid and heart troubles they diagnosed

nonetheless he was still somewhat more than a ghost.

Still, he needed a monicker of the pet sort:

SimpSunny, BartholoMew.

Mewie, for short.

In Memoriam:

Mewie’s first day with us October 4th, 2024.

His final trip to the vet was on February 16th, 2025.

By Ken Gosse

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/ken.gosse/