R.I.P.

Ten o'clock p.m. is my shut-off time.

It's ten now.

I don't want to go to sleep no matter how tired I am.  I know that by going to bed, the morning comes sooner.

Morning.

The loss of Smokey.

**********

This is an un-welcomed morning with swollen eyes.

Our goodbye has arrived.

Your shaking bones won't have to hold you any longer.  They can rest.

Your emptying stomach will no longer feel the sickening pain that has been weakening you more every day.

You will feel strength, once again.

Your purring will ring loud and clear, as will your bellowing meows.

You have to promise you'll tell Gypsy I still miss her every day.

You have to promise to tell Papi's grandpa that I wish I could have met him, and that he is terribly missed by grandma and my love.

You have to promise to visit me in spirit, where you will romp and play in my dreams, showing me your health and vigor has been restored.

This is where will be the Bathroom Buddy again.

This body you leave is only that; skin, bones, and the sweetest whiskers that rub along the bathroom basin cupboard, exuding adoration.

Your time has been lived well, and the missing birds can attest to that.

You have been loved with devoutness.

I am so very grateful to have lived a portion of this life with you.

Rest.

Mr. Moustache.

These tears will never fill this empty house.