Backing out of the garage,
late for a funeral,
I heard a sickening thump.
I hoped it wasn't a squirrel,
or even a pesky raccoon.
No, it was our cat, Boswell,
a long-haired black beauty
with chartreuse eyes.
He was much loved,
especially by my mate
whose lap he warmed
throughout those last Alzheimered years.

Forgetting about the service
for my friend, I stood screaming
for help--as if anyone could
stop the convulsing,
banish the blood,
make it not have happened.

A modicum of comfort came
from knowing he was in decline.
Soon I'd be forced to make that grim
decision pet owners dread.
But why was I to be the executioner?
The answer finally came
in the form of a question.
Who else could have done it with such love?

--Elaine Parker Akin