George “scat!” pitter pat
was what he called himself,
and as cats go he wasn’t half bad
mainly because half wasn’t there.

He lost one life and
an ear to a carving knife.
The second went with a tip
of his tail to a block of cement.

His third life was spent
dying in a basement,
a bag of bones that pooped
and peesed whenever he sneezed —
he looked like he’d die
if you stroked, or squeez’d him.

Whether fourth, fifth or sixth is truly moot,
the next life George lost took off with his foot.
Hence his name — no pitter patter
just pitter pat (and an uncomfortable pause).

How many lives followed, attended by bits and tatters,
is known only by George, the parts don’t really matter.
He was singular — in almost every limb —
popular — he’s been all over the place —
at one with the world — it was as if he gave
everyone who knew him a little piece of himself.

So let us remember him as he was:
1) a cat with an eye out for you
2) always willing to lend a friend an ear
3) A paw you could count to three on
4) a tail half told
5) no worries regarding unexpected paternity suits
6) a smile that said, “I’ve had extensive dental work”
7) a nostril, a cheek, turned into one unspeakable orifice
8) three legs make it easy to curl up and nap this way — you should try it sometime

And so nine he died,
nine could not be denied.
His great heart tried
but this world he left behind.

Skit scat pitter pat,
George was not just half a cat,
he was much more than that.
George “scat!” pitter pat was always
greater than the sum of his parts.