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
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
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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