Sixty Years Ago
Pat Dixon
Sixty years ago I buried a cat. His round
Young little head was crushed lopsided, his left
Eye bulged half out, and from his ears and mouth
The blood had come, speckling both the nearby snow
And his silver gray angora fur. Tiny tracks
Showed how he’d leaped about, playing before
Breakfast in the first snow he had known,
And larger tracks showed how our new neighbor’s
Pure-bred, weak-hipped drooling boxer had come, seen,
Pursued, caught, and conquered in a small snow drift
Beside our door. I heard my mother call
Her pet and tap his dish, then run with choked
Soft sobs up to her room. My father wrapped
The cat in papers. I buried it, while he
Saw to it that our neighbor sold the dog.
Helpless to replace what had been lost, we
Could only remove things from her sight
