Ménage à sept

I've always loved animals  
and I sought to love you,  
exactly as you are,  
obsessive about poetry,  
straggly flyaway hair,  
unfinished ink and all.  
 
Initially, I was apprehensive  
but nonetheless happy,  
to welcome your three incontinent tomcats,  
the pair of iguanas  
and a large fish bowl full of piranhas,  
the day you humped your trunk through my door.  
 
I willingly accepted the new cleaning regime  
necessitated by us being seven in a bed,  
thought I adapted well  
to boiling sheets in borax every day  
and soon became accustomed  
to the iguanas playfully nibbling my toenails  
whilst using my feet  
to maintain consistent body temperature at night.
 
I completely understand  
that every relationship  
is fraught with highs and lows,  
so naturally I shared your dismay  
when Curiosity the youngest tomcat of the three,  
disappeared and you found whiskers  
floating in the fish bowl one morning,  
but unlike you I did not respond  
by drinking a bottle and a half of strong brandy
every day at breakfast,  
in an attempt to assuage my grief.
 
Not one of us is perfect  
and I wholeheartedly acknowledge  
that different people react to loss  
in a variety of ways.  
Although shaving your head  
and wearing a robe made from coarse sackcloth  
might be considered as acceptable  
for a form of mourning in some cultures,  
I feel bound to point out  
it has done nothing to ignite  
any lingering sparks of romance  
we may have rekindled together.  
 
I know you feel guilty
and have tried my best  
to remain calm and supportive throughout,  
hoping that this crisis in our household  
is an unfortunate blip  
which will heal itself naturally in time.  
 
But as you are aware,  
matters have taken an even more sinister turn  
now that the largest of the piranhas,  
the possessor of a particularly beady, avaricious stare,  
who doubtless enjoyed the lion's share  
of your poor dear Curiosity,  
appears to be growing legs  
at a somewhat alarming rate.  
 
I calculate it will be only a few days  
before this razor toothed, emergent amphibian  
will be sitting up at table  
seeking to share the delights  
of our intimate candlelit suppers together.  
 
Even the iguanas,  
normally reluctant to display emotion of any kind,  
appear perturbed at the prospect  
and both remaining tomcats seem broody  
and are refusing to eat anything at all.
 
I think it may be prudent therefore  
to conceal your glass eye,  
which you normally keep floating in a jar  
at our bedside overnight,  
in some safer hiding place
lest our fishy friend escapes under cover of darkness
and mistakes it  
for his next tasty bite....