Possum was nineteen years old, he had been in my family for almost two thirds of my life. He had stage three renal disease, arthritis and was going a bit batty, as old cats tend to do. But he still had a gleam in his eye and could frisk up the stairs like a kitten if he wished to. He had a firmly established routine in his life (he liked his routine), and ruled over the house with a quiet dignity. He was a gentleman.
Possum came into our family in November 1994 as a tiny little kitten. For my high school years, the two of us were very close. After I moved away for university, and eventually came back nine years later with three cats (something he dealt with with great tolerance), he very much became my parent's boy. However he still saved some moment for me. I treasure all these moments.
Unlike the long, painful ordeal with Gizmo, Possum's departure was sudden and unexpected (though in the immortal words of Tara Maclay from Buffy... It's always sudden...). We were all so used to working within his routine, and to having his quiet presence nearby. Adjusting to a two cat household with Dim Sim and Sahara.
Goodbye good boy, handsome boy. Thank you for nineteen years. I hope you are frolicking freely, and eating all the prawns and kangaroo you want.
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