Bobby was a young selfish dog

Woundering around on our meadow

Crashing into other leaves

and loved from every breed

Me and him, were like woody and buzz

Sometimes we love, sometimes we bite.

And he, this dog with no sense of what life is

tends to turn around, for me to scratch his tummy.

Boy I love this dog, we're best friends forever

we've been silly sometimes,

and he was a little naughty

but love will always be present,

what we always promised

As I rap on the door

I hear a scampering swoosh

as the knob turns

the door creaks open

Yoshi’s velvety fur tossles

as he scurries

like a thunderbolt

and wallops

a delighted bark!

He enthusiastically

scampers

as his paws madly

pitter patter

across the tile.

He leaps up

howling in pure joy

his gleeful tail

pounding the ground

His eyes and mouth

grin together widely

and reveal his

pure reverie.

As I pull him close

I hear his heart

thud against mine.

As he plunks

a sloppy kiss on my cheek

I relish this

furry hug with the

sweetest pup around!

I don't remember when my parents first set of cats were kittens. They had an orange striped shorthair named Woody and his aggressive counterpart Taz, a black push nosed longhair that didn't look like it came from the womb of a farm cat. They told me stories of these fellows, many of them. I only have brief memories of Taz, snapshots of him wheeling around my four year old body. I was still wearing a diaper and smacking chicken bones on the driveway. The last image of him I have is his puffy body walking side by side with Woody. They were idling between the island and kitchen sink in perfect profile, always walked together in that way.

Taz's existence and his presence in my life was short lived. As a kitten he'd lost part of his paw to a car, played offence against dogs, and ate anything that would destroy his liver. His relationship with Woody was a classic alpha beta hierarchy. For the scraggled orange cat, Taz was a body to hide behind and a place to jeer when danger was past. I could never tell how he felt when Taz died. For most of my years, Woody was a skinny old thing. The skin under his ears would clog into black masses. My mom would cover them with fish oil in a vain attempt to shrink them. His meow was more of a hack, the harsh masculine cough of a long time smoker. I called him smoker cat for this reason. Like Taz, Woody only lasted a short while in my life. He lived slow and died old, a feat Taz didn't share nor follow.

The house isn't right without cats, two more would follow. Poppy and Pippa are their names. Their rambunctious like the others, but with higher spirits. I've been with them for a few months and feel like I know everything and nothing about them. Pippa is a shorthaired black cat with a white nape and mittens. Poppy is a cow spotted longhair with big paws and tail. Both treat each other as acquaintances, but nothing more. They jump and beg for play as all kittens do. Both are more of teenagers now, starting to fatten and grow from their frail small bodies.

It's funny how each cat has a shifting character to them, especially when their young. Poppy started out gentle. She had a curious look in her eyes when we brought her home, always cocked her head. She doesn't do that anymore, her eyes have become more frantic, her frame and energy bigger and dominating. Pippa has stayed the same more or less. Her eyes are slanted, cunning, but mature. My mom remarks how she had devilish eyes, and I'd agree. But I don't find anything mischievous about her. She carries herself tight with her tail up. Her body has changed from slender to pear shaped. Her fur has stayed the same, a thick melanin coat like that of an otter.