My hand gentle on the vibration of DQ’s back.
We ascribe memories to animals. Anthropomorphism
is our system. Kingsford’s scent lies on fewer and fewer
surfaces—we vacuumed his hairs, changed the covers 
this August of grieving, and in bed we say
the living one dreams of her human family. If ever 
there was a before in this cat’s life, if ever she could 
recant her past to us—what I hate about the cage is
not the sick animal inside it, but that I can’t explain
where we are going, or why, just he needs to trust
me, beyond all his mewling (we pass a fish truck 
on Penn Avenue in sunlight)—trust me: where
we are going will end your suffering.