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ODE TO OLLIE IN THE FALL

Ode To Ollie In The Fall

For Ollie’s first Fall he was kittenish and bright.
Just a three month old baby, a furry ball of delight.
He would run through the house, and play hide and seek,
We would look everywhere, then out he would peek
With a soft teasing meow and those huge owlish eyes.
Though we knew where he was, we pretended surprise.

Though he was born in a barn, just a common farm cat
He thought he was royalty, and he acted like that.
He never came when we called him just plain  “kitty, kitty”
He would sit like a statue, with his tail curled so pretty.
He was named for a Colonel, a most important man;
He was Oliver North’s namesake (because we were his fans).

He almost didn’t make it through his second year’s Fall;
We put him in our basement with our dog, big and tall
Who didn’t like this new critter eating out of his bowl
So he chased him quite fiercely, Ollie’s death was his goal.
Round and round in the basement, cat fur flying high
Til we came to his rescue when we heard his shrill cry.

There was the Fall he had surgery, much against his will
Maine Coon paws have claws that are sharp as a quill;
So the doctor cut gently, assuring us he would live
Though he acted so angry, meowed he’d never forgive.
Then another surgery was done, though he didn’t believe
It was necessary either, another loss he did grieve.

There was the Fall he started travelling, on the weekends he’d go
In Milan’s blue pickup, the trip seemed so slow.
He never did learn to like it, so eventually he stayed
With me in the parsonage, with Gladys his maid.
He was everybody’s buddy, always ran to the door;
He loved his new friends, never found them a bore.

Fifteen autumn seasons have now come and gone
And Ollie has treasured them all, one by one;
Ears perking up sharply as the hickory nuts fall.
Green eyes watching squirrels chase them like a ball.
The doctor said yesterday that he may soon pass
And this sixteenth Fall season may well be his last.

Do cats go to  heaven?  No one seems to know.
But if God wants him there, who are we to say no?
Would he sleep on a cloud, so fluffy and soft?
Or would he “climb to high heaven”, and look o’er the loft?
Just waiting to hear us make that final call
To Oliver (not kitty), where there’ll be no more Fall.

Written by Joan Hart, September 17, 2002 for Ollie who died October 19, 2002

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