Coming to grips

I have a cat.
Well, he's not my cat.
First, he belonged to an older gentleman.
Who loved him, and for what ever reasons, had to give him away.
To my grandmother.
Who died in '94 at age 89.
From cancer.
Shame.
She could still remember childhood rhymes she'd learned in the 1910's.
She loved him, and, when she died, gave him to my mother.
Who didn't want a cat.
But learned to love him.
Inspite of herself,
and cat boxes.
She passed in '01 at age '69.
From cancer.
So I am his forth "owner"....
If cats can have such things.
He lost an eye earlier this year to glaucoma.
I tell the women,
'I wake up with
a "One eyed Woody"
every morning'.
They all giggle.
He's an old cat.
An "old man"
that I call "My Kitten Kitten",
"My Kitten of LOVE and DESIRE".
And I have to come to grips.
With the fact that we all wear out.
Even if we have had four owners.
And...
I love him
too...