When I found you on Halloween,
your scrawny two-and-a-half-pound body
covered in thin black fur
and one yellow eye blinded by
who-knows-what in your young life.
I knew you were a champion.
The following year and a half of semi-weekly vet visits,
of attempting every known medication known to help
those with your symptoms and turning up nothing.
You held on, you tiny scruffy ruffian.
You refused to give up and so did I
And yet I named you Vincent Van Gattogh,
a tribute to an artist I admire
without realizing that Vincent means
“to conquer”, and you have truly conquered
everything life tried to throw at a young kitten,
trying to dissuade you from living.
You live in spite of all the infections,
you live in spite of falling into a five-gallon bucket of motor oil,
you live in spite puncturing a hole in your arm,
you live in spite of breaking your hip,
you live because you are a conqueror.
And you are my tiny bastard and I worry about you constantly,