Red was the color of the stain on his face,

paw which he licked and licked, paw over head

licked and licked, paw over head,

licked and licked, paw over head, rubbed and rubbed,

paw back to be licked and licked again.

 

Gray was his color, steel soft gray,

touched lightly with sun-soaked brown,

ghost stripes on his tail,

gray on his paws, on his head, on his ears,

gray was the color of his fur.

 

Yellow was the color of his eyes,

large round eyes, full or pinpoints of pupil,

scowling in anger, slitted in contentment,

wide with curiosity, watching me, watching me

with those yellow eyes, always.

 

Pink were the pads of his paws, the tender

firm cushions that couched each movement,

the mottled pink pads, neat as beans,

scrupulously clean

pink on the pads of his paws.

 

White was the color of his whiskers, so very long;

long and slender, steely and straight

emerging from the soft gray jowls,

extending touch out into the world,

white were his always searching, always feeling whiskers.

 

Black was the color of his heart

when he hunted, mouse or mole,

bird or young creatures who

wandered into his realm.

Black was his heart, ruthless and powerful,

hunting, stalking, snuffing out a life.

 

Mahogany was the color of his purr,

deep and resonate, sourced from

a wellspring somewhere only he could access;

bubbling up into his throat, mahogany tone and

basso profundo melting under my hand

as I stroke the gray fur,

look into his yellow eyes,

notice his pink pads,

tickle his white whiskers,

forgive his black heart,

wash away the red stain.