Jazzy

At the shelter
they did not tell us her age,
a tiny thing with black fur
taken from her mother too young
so hoarse from crying she could only croak.
All ears and eyes
and never did learn the art
of purring.

We took her from the din of dogs
and two boisterous brothers,
lifting her from the food bowl
where she fiercely protected her share
and brought Jazzy home.

She repaid that deed a thousand fold,
an ebony beauty,
sensitive to our every mood,
a gentle companion at the foot of the bed.

Now her sleekness is disheveled,
her gait distorted by arthritis,
a pain she vainly tries to lick away
and yet she springs up on laps
and hurries, tottering slightly, to greet.

Her amber eyes are dimmer
and her face hollow-cheeked
but her heart is strong and love
is in her unflinching gaze.
How does one gauge
the quality of a cat’s life?