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Ling Ling

When we moved we put Ling Ling to sleep.
Our new condominium home still incomplete.

A motel room in Easthampton, off the road,
"No Pets Allows" - behind the trees.

Overpriced, cedar shingled summer domicile,
designed for trysting time, family weekends,
see the rich and famous spend their holidays.

No place for a blind seventeen year old Siamese
who often missed the bathroom litter box,
trying for normalcy - feline spurts of anger
combined with lap sitting warning purrs.

The vagaries called, "old age dilemmas."
He knew his place, no other choice given.
Humankind, cruelly leaves pets behind.

At the veterinarian, I petted him,
no longer apprehensive, at first submitted,
then slashed and fought, as if to say,
"Give me another chance,
to fight another day."

Lives come and go, a draconian decision,
almost two decades of our living bedded down,
burnt to cinders, buried in the ground.

In tears I turned the ignition key on,
backed my car out, then drove away.

Author: Roy Schoenberg, New York.
Ling Ling


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