I named you Punkin when
The man (who shattered my heart,
Broke our vows, but that was nearly a decade later)
Said you were an orange tabby.
You showed up.
I knew you were, instead, a
Tater Tot.
Just browned around the edges.
Now, you’re 15 years, minus a
Cancer-riddled leg, old.
A full decade as
AmpuTater.
You quacked a noisy demand today that
The man (who healed my heart,
Made real vows, promised forever)
Cuddle you in his arms, too.
Snapshot this moment.
Hold it forever.
Put Out to Pasture 