My Pet Ontology

George, my mother’s big Persian,

older than me. By the time I became a teenager,
boy, was that cat smelly!

Sylvia, beautiful black short-hair.
When she died, my dad
buried her in a towel.

Winifred, another black.
She hated other cats
and lived in the incinerator.

Agnes, the only dog.
Couldn’t be potty-trained,
so my dad drowned her.

Henry, a vacant-eyed black-and-white.
I kicked him off my bed one night,
and I think he went and got locked in a panel truck.

Harriet, an ornery tortoiseshell.
Had her litter on
an old stump under the bushes.

One of Harriet’s kittens—Rodney. The people who came
and took him brought him back emaciated, scared. 
You could drape Rodney over chairs like a slinky.

Henrietta,
my sister’s favorite,
eviscerated by dogs.

Walter, Henrietta’s kitten,
black and white like her mother.
We mistook two little tufts of fur for testicles.

Flora, sveldt tabby my dad called Rugga-Carpeta.
Those free-ranging Denver canines ripped her tail off,
and she died in convulsions on the kitchen floor.

Julius—Orange Julius, my mother called him.
One day when she was dying, I realized my mother was afraid
Julius would lie on her chest and suffocate her.

I believe she was relieved
when I had Julius 
removed from the house.