Pounce scurried with haste down creativity’s halls.
He climbed up cabinets, counters, and walls.
He could meow even louder than any real cat
And purr even softer – I knew this as fact.
He was slender and soft,
Limber and thin.
He never did scoff
The imagination within.
Cotton was his pelt,
And his belly was stuffing.
His eyes were black beads
That saw yet saw nothing.
Wherever I went, Pounce always did follow.
If he was not in my arms, I surely felt hollow.
He’d been to the beach, to the movies, the store.
I’d feed his curiosity – we’d ever need more.
He’d stay with me from morning ‘til night,
And then guard my bedside with a lion’s might.
Inside my mind, through our house he did bounce.
He was real to me – he, my dear Pounce.