We wonder at the number

of murdered birds

Henry must have racked up

in his days on the street.

We suspect that, despite

his instinctive blood lust,

he must have preferred

simply getting fed meat.

We assume there exist

several litters of kittens

that Henry did sire

before he got caught.

We know from the scars

‘round his ears and his whiskers

a hist’ry of the two-sided

battles he fought.

For five years he paced

on our heads in their pillows

ready for breakfast

well before dawn.

We called him a jag

but he always forgave us

as soon as he heard

that sweet treat-bag song.