Reginald the Fifth

Cloning is now a reality. Still, every cat is entitled to his own sense of entitlement.

A year after my death,
Reginald the Sixth is eight months old,
playing with my red string
and batting about my catnip-stuffed
felt mouse.

Just as I was at his age,
this particular Reginald
is too concerned with sparrows
to recognize himself at the age of four
in the photo on the Frigidaire.

Well taken care of, as he is,
it doesn't occur to him
to think about why
he can never surprise them
or how it is
that they know he prefers
the wrinkled afghan in the bedroom
to the wicker chair on the porch --
unless, of course, that chair is filled
with an empty lap.

Living out the existence of another,
this latest version of Reginald
has no idea
that he is, in fact,
the perfect cat for the Joneses
because he has been
the perfect cat for the Joneses
for five lifetimes and eight months.

A year after his death,
I can only hope that
this particular Reginald
has come to appreciate
those of us
who had helped to make his life
as comfortable as it was.

Then again,
I'm not counting on it.