Her last week was all baby food and belly rubs,

kisses on the nose and daddy hugs.

"It's just a rat! Just a rat!"

"I know," I apologize;

cos that's what you do when your kids are the furry kind.

Her last day was lullabies and soft, steady sobs;

she had no use for stage one carrots anymore.

But belly rubs, oh belly rubs, with those we counted the minutes.

Her last seconds. Her last everything.

She lived a life in those seconds and all that came before,

though what is a life of seconds to a human moving on?

Her last thoughts (I hope) were of her dads,

bringers of sticks and pickers of poop.

I still hear them: "Just a rat!"

Just. A. Rat.

I need no explanation. No comeback.

For someday she'll tell them of her last life on Earth:

"There were kisses and hugs, and lullabies and sobs,

there were seconds and minutes full and warm.

There were aches and seizures, and tears and tumors

cos that's what you get if you live too long.

But if you're lucky, the way I was lucky, you'll get what you get and then some;

But it all goes too fast,

so please enjoy those belly rubs."