In Sickness and in Health

No jumping, running,
whining, scratching,
wagging, gobbling,
prancing, snorting,
fetching, digging.
No cat menacing.
No big brown eyes begging.
No furry companion in my bed.
I tend in helplessness as he quivers
under the red blanket, eats pills like a
good dog, and floats in his pain.

Cats are healers.
That is their cosmic role with humans.
Most of the time cats are in their own world of sleep and vigilance.
We are interlopers, or providers of food and shelter, perhaps amusing, perhaps not.
But when their humans are sick or hurt, the cats nuzzle and nestle and stay close.
They are live pillows, droning with purr.
Their claws prick gently as they knead us in that feline acupuncture.
Their eyes look deeply into ours as if to hypnotize the cobra
of our disease.

Now it is Duke who is ill, a dog.
He whimpers in pain and lies trembling.
To my surprise, both cats appear.
They are with him, near but not touching---big cats gazing at small dog.
Though he is an enemy of sorts, Duke is their dog, or at least my dog.
And they are, after all, healers.
We sit vigil together.
.