As I watch my Grandmother place food in a bowl,
out of the shadows he came, who I call the little lost soul.
He's a feral cat, trying to make ends meet,
his fur so dirty, his legs so sore from roaming along the streets.
The tabby is a survivor, any cat lover could see,
for there were so many scars where his stripes should be.
But what really made me sad as I passed by,
was not only his appearance, it was his heart-felt eyes.
The continuous flow of tears that dripped from him as he tried to squint and stare,
I knew it was loneliness, but mainly from the winter's cold air.
My Grandmother peeked from her window, she knew he ate,
she stepped onto the porch and again filled his plate.
For five long years she was the only person he lived for,
"Hello Tuffy," she softly said, "does my Tuffy want more?"
Grandmom really wanted that tomcat, that poor old scruff,
but her body told herself; three cats were quite enough.
After eating and savoring, Tuffy went on his way,
off again to nowhere, oh that poor little stray!
I wanted to hold him and hug him, rub his tiny ripped ears,
but people abused him, so it's humans the most in which he fears.
Why does no one help him? Are they afraid he has fleas, maybe just a few,
but people around my neighborhood, have better things to do.
Men, women, and children don't look at Tuffy, and his sad eyes,
that are ever so tearing, don't they even want to know why?
One brisk morning as I'm walking my dog, I gasped in fright,
disoriented and shock as I looked upon the small tragic sight.
Why! Must I ask you, are people careless when they drive, because of that carelessness, Tuffy the little lost soul isn't alive.
I cumbersomely ran home, mentally weak and drained,
because I memorized his body, his face such in pain!
All the years he fought, all his battle scars,
to imagine such a death, to be struck by a car!
The next day I went to get him so he could peacefully rest so I ran in a flash,
but I was too late; the garbage truck was his caretaker, like just another piece of trash.
Every day, I try to forget this terrible sin,
Realizing the little now found soul is happily in heaven.
Deep down I know he's happy and carefree,
purring in the cradling arms of Saint Francis of Assisi.
The tabby's fur so clean, his eyes are now ever so clear,
because Jesus just finished wiping away his tears.
I wish people knew Tuffy, what a wonderful cat to lose,
but writing this poem was hard enough; I had to tell my Grandmother the bad news.
I quietly stepped in her house, told her everything needed to be said,
she lowered her pen and crossword book down, shaking her head.
After all those years of nightly visits she has fed him,
her beloved little teary eyed round face tabby she cared for,
"Oh dear," she whispered "my Tuffy.. no more.

TUFFY -LOST ON JANUARY 18th 1995
In sweet memory of Tuffy, his life was not spared,
He lived longer than a feral should because of one beautiful person who cared.

by Gina DeNofa