You are aging, I can see it in your fur.
Some hairs, once black as night, like the others are now gleaming white.
When I run my hand over your belly a hint of silver appears
For a moment, right before it’s gone again.
You used to be king, sleeping only on our best pillows,
Coming back from your glorious hunt, feathers still trapped in your fur.
But now you eat only what we feed you, and you are content to take
My open books as your paper mattress.
Had I written this a year ago, you would be playing with my pencil, but now
You just curl your paws as I use it to scratch behind your ears.
I remember the time you would hop behind butterflies in the summer months,
But now summers are too warm for you and you prefer the cool shade inside,
Where you sleep on your paper mattress.
Yes, my friend, you are aging, like time does to all things in due time.
In due time.