Queenie Is Dead

We are in a mournful mood this morn, Queenie my friends cat is dead. Overfed its fatty heart gave up. For days it had been hiding in a box dreaming of chasing mice but now only dream-mice remain to sing of her passing. We are all distraught, some plainly overwrought; for in cat and doggy years she was only 96. The pageantry of her feline majesty has us all held in obsequious awe. If only I had been more kind, more aware of her royal soul, instead I flung a slipper at her as she catcalled for a secret lover, a noble cat who reigned not far from here.