A row of tankas

Fred, our blackest cat,
did not react when coated.
Fumes as sedative,
he mewed into each brush stroke.
We painted in glue; turned white.

Milky drips were caught
then peeled off palms in one piece,
like tracing paper.
Some fell down dark slats between
floorboards and disappeared.

Beneath wooden planks,
a mound, yellow lego arms,
lost pocket money,
toy plane missiles. Camouflaged
in strips of could-be snake skin

Fred had to be shaved;
a bulging uncooked sausage.
He wouldn't be stroked.
Those brave, 'good with animals',
gave up with shrugs, surrendered.

I realised when
Fred died we'd been the same age.
Both six, now eighteen.
I told a friend, "Fred is dead."
Something, the rhyme, made us laugh.