Through fifteen winters, springs fourteen,
Their love this orange cat had glean--
Deserved we all agree.
For he's not just a pretty boy:
With brains and brawls he oft brought joy,
Or preys caught from a tree.

The doors with locks do no'ing to block
The progress of this sage's walk
When nature doth beckon;
The warrior proudly shows his ear,
Missing a piece since yesteryear
(Friendly bout, I reckon).

Upon my love whene'er I call,
He unabashedly would fall
So daint'ly on my knee;
With iv'ry stripes and yellow eyes,
He confidently would apprise
His presence clear to me.

Yet lady fortune so offends
This afternoon when the kalendes
Of March but three days hence.
A feline of most wondrous kind
Was Harpo through whose smile we find
Life's liquid doth dispense.

---

I am no Thomas Gray, but I try my best.

Harpo was put down today. According to S, he puked this afternoon, which was not abnormal for old cats like him; but he kept on puking for a long time, which is when S's father noticed something wrong. It could be heart failure brought on by excessive puking, or it could be a stroke, but Harpo was found to be dragging his hindquarters around, obviously lacking some motor control. So the vet decided that it would be best for him to move on.

Here remembered: defeater of locks, hunter of slinky, coveter of parakeet, and a general lazy blob that doesn't hunt (all that much).