To manage my longing to be close to your kind, I constructed a rule:
help the stray that comes when called.
Contextually, it saves me from being fooled by your fickle folk crying for help
but refusing to come close.
The subtext bears the weight: when the right one arrives, make room for them to stay.
You ran to me without reservation, you and your colonies of fleas and mites.
On the way to the vet, your tooth fell out into my lap.
Over weeks I watched your matte coat turn to gloss; your energy rose
as we evicted parasites and nourished you.
You impressed me as you parkoured off walls and learned to sit.
You draped yourself over my shoulder as I tried to play the fiddle but mostly made it screech.

Now you sit on the stool in the kitchen and watch
as I pull bread from the cabinet, open cans, and cut vegetables.
You patiently wait for your turn to sniff each ingredient. You crane your head
and mew if I’ve forgotten to give you olfactory samples.
You vocalize like never before; your demand is to be outside.
I relate to your feeling trapped in this domestic box and grapple with the ethical dilemma that is my power over you.
You trusted enough to come when I called. I want to trust that you’ll return if I let you out and that harm won’t find you out there.
Today you are three and you are the ring-tailed boy that reminds me to play, to experience all of my senses, and to seek freedom.