Butter’s Blues In San Mateo woods, he first appeared, A white ghost hunter the forest revered. Perched in trees, with a watchful stare, Shy, yet a presence—Robin was there. They had a vibe, a pull, a flame, She opened her door, and in he came. Pure white as snow, with eyes that gleamed, A love story written, more real than dreamed. Named for Butterfield, blues in his tone, Buttah, Boo, Bah Bah—he made a home. Once feral, with hiss, with wounds to mend, She became his healer, his medicine, his friend. He gave her the same—his purr, his grace, A lap cat at last, love’s warm embrace. Rolling belly-up, combed with care, Foodie for chicken, treats to share. Hunter of mice and vole and snake and bird, Yet chirpy laughter was often heard. He chased the laser, he chased the ball, Dog-like spirit, a voice so tall. Through sickness and hospice, she held him tight, He bore it gently, patient, polite. Muse by his side, with tolerance shown, But Robin and Butter—their bond alone. He slept between her legs at night, He sang the blues with a voice of might. At last, at home, his journey done, In Robin’s lap, as breezes spun. Ocean winds whispered, ravens sang, August air through the doorway rang. Peace descended, soft and true— An epic love, eternal, new.
