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In puddles deep, with whiskers wet,
A tabby waits with no regret.
Her fur is damp, her paws are cold,
Yet hope within her heart is bold.
She mews a song beneath the grey,
A tiny plea in skies of clay:
“One bowl of milk, a warm soft bed,
A gentle hand to pat my head.”
Brown stripes shimmer through the rain,
She shakes her tail and asks again—
“Will someone see, will someone know,
I’m ready for my Furrever Home?”