I'd like to tell you that they are now
Owners of a small motel in Florida;
That they lounge in the sunny courtyard
And only rent to old women, PETA members.

But this is too important to be told
By an unreliable narrator.
I am trying not to lie.

I had fifty cats, once--
"Had" in the sense that I
Had a boyfriend, or an addiction.
But this isn't about me.
Isn't that true?

A small refugee camp
Set up in my apartment;
No birth control, no sanitation,
Illnesses went around and took out
Eyes, lives. We were all stressed
From overcrowding. None of us
Had money, or a way out.

Names? Of course they had names;
I remeber them: Mousey, Nosey,
Big Fluff, Little Gray. Names have
Always been attributes when
Life is uncertain.

In the end, I was taken out
By the scruff of my neck; put
In a van, minus part of an eye,
A leg, heart and lungs failing.
The paramedics noted that I had fleas.
The cats went away in a van, too;
I don't think they were so lucky.

Do you believe me?