By Andrew R. Duckworth

Photo and editing by Andrew R. Duckworth
He talks to me,
In his own way,
As if I can understand,
As if we were at a cafe
Carrying on some conversation,
Talking about events of the day.
He always greets me at the door
With his chatter,
A good friend
Always willing to talk,
Wondering where I’ve been, perhaps.
Eight years since the fluff ball
First came home.
But now, those tiny paws
Are just a bit bigger,
Those tiny squeaks
Just a bit deeper,
Those yellow and green eyes
Peer just a bit deeper.

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