May 2010 – mike.whybark.com

I suppose I should write this down now, as ten months is a short time to know a small animal, and the memories won’t get any clearer.

Possum’s favorite toy was a stuffed squirrel, which she began playing with when it was the same size as she. We buried it with her.

Viv took some pictures of me holding her corpse and bawling. A bit later, after we’d figured out where to bury her, her brother George came up and began sniffing her corpse, clearly totally freaked out. I took pictures and a short movie of that.

When she was alive, one of her favorite activities was to seize my head from behind in both paws and chew on my hair.

She is the only cat I have had out of five prior who was a determined inside-the-bed cat. Her favorite place was right in between Viv and I; the more it seemed like we would squish her the louder she would purr.

Of her biological cat family, George and Lark remain alive and well. Possum is the only one of the three who adopted the announcing and conversational meow, and I was looking forward to seeing where it went as she got older. Sadly, I do not think I have a recording of her call, but it was rather demanding, if friendly and cheerful.

Possum daily insisted on eating coffeebeans as I set up the coffee each night. Should I fail the task, I was clearly informed.

Possum’s demeanor was what I would have to call cheerful, and it is this that endeared her to me. My demeanor is not cheerful, and both Lark and Rocket have undergone life experiences that have left them wary, if loving, companions.

I don’t recall if Possum or George was born first. I’m not sure if we know.

Finally, today, May 22, is the one year anniversary of Lark entering our family.

I had just set about lighting a fire on this chilly May day when Viv burst through the front door in tears. Startled, I jumped and swore. Viv said, “Possum…” and I replied with certainty, “Possum’s dead.”

Viv led me down the front steps to the edge of the driveway, and our darling baby girl cat lay stiff and cooling in the grass, a bluebottle fly on one open eye. I laid my hand on her; she was still warm. There was a smudge of blood on one hind paw, and her collar was missing. Since she never fought her collar off, I assumed it had been knocked off by the car that hit her. A bit later in the day, I thought to check the street in front of the house. Sure enough, there it was.

Much later, after burying her and planting a pineapple sage bush atop her resting place, I realized that Possum must have been hit in the five minutes between my running out the front door to get the wood for the fire and Viv’s horrifying discovery on returning to the house.

Of the three cats in our little herd, Possum was the one who was closest to me and I will miss her keenly.