I’m watching TV — women in big hats,
mint juleps, a parade of sleek
muscled Thoroughbred hips
that glint like gold in the sun.

The cat slinks into the living room, fat
furry grin on her lips, and drops
something at my feet.  It’s pink
and naked, still
at first, then squirming, struggling
to lift its stick neck, raise
the heavy blind head with twin
bulging bruises for eyes.
I call out to my husband.   

I’ve been rooting for the big grey
latecomer named for a deadly
shark, but he spooks
and flips at the starting gate,
scratches from the race.  

Scratches, like a cat’s claws.
Scratches, like a wound.  

My husband gathers the chick
as I scold our pet, though I know
she has only done exactly
what she was made to do.  

My heart aches, but I’m thankful
for compassion —
the way he takes the bird
out of my sight before he does
what he must do.

I am thankful
for preservation —
that today the grey will walk
safely back to the barn, live
to race another day, hear
the roar of another crowd, feel
adrenaline pulse hot
through his veins, do exactly
what he was made to do.