My Little Boy-O

I know many pet owners probably feel their pet is special. I would say that about all the pets that have entered my life, but Romo was truly an extraordinary little being, the best. From the time I first saw him, he became my heart animal. No other animal will ever replace him. There was an instant connection, and our bond grew throughout the years.

We had a lot of nicknames for my wonderful boy. He was my black and white version of the pink panther, my little boy-o, my sweet pea and my darling boy. Others called him Nana or Romo, the latter his given name that suited him well. 

Romo wasn't like most cats. He was exceptionally smart, sensitive, very vocal, and he came when I called him. We did yoga together almost every morning, and he loved the sun as much as I do. Some might think it's crazy, but he was talkative. He must have had a touch of Siamese in him. I will miss those wonderful sounds, his purr, his meows and the funny cooing noises he created. The adorable feline had a personality that I loved, even when he attacked my ankles when he didn't want me to leave the room. He could be so feisty, and it made me love him even more. 

Losing him has shaken my world. I want the world to stop, the Earth to stop spinning, so everyone can acknowledge the loss of such a remarkable and sweet soul. 

RIP my sweet little prince. You are forever in my heart. The world, especially my world, will never be the same without you. What a good boy you were. 

Thank you Home to Heaven for your compassion and kindness on one of the most difficult days of my life. 

This poem has an odd history, but it's all I can think of that fits right now:

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.