A cat named Possum

Four years ago when we visited our son in Georgia, I bonded with their cat.
I had no intention of doing so.  It just happened.  
When I'm a visitor in anybody's home, I am usually the first one up in the morning, rising between 5 and 6 A.M.  The one resident at my son's house who greeted me each day when I went to the kitchen to make coffee was Possum the Pussycat.  I did a blog entry about her back then.  

She was a fine, fat cat.  She would meow a "good morning", and I would reply.  We had some great conversations, she and I.  Although she was seventeen years old at the time, you would never have guessed it.
During our visit this year, she and I still had our morning conversations.  She's twenty-one years old, hard of hearing, and blind in one eye; but she greeted me politely each day.   

She's much thinner, although she seems to feel just fine, thank-you-very-much.  I'd find her on her favorite chair when I walked through the living room, and she would soon follow me to the kitchen.  After we had our usual conversation, she invariably went down the hall to the door of the bedroom where my son and daughter-in-law sleep.  

There she would sit, acting as though she thought if she stared at the door long enough, it would finally swing open.  


We humans discussed, several times, the fact that Possum can't possibly have much time left.  At one point I made the mistake of mentioning "Possum" and "death" in the same sentence in the presence of Deb's six-year-old granddaughter, Morgan.  

That's Morgan, in back, posing for a picture with her little sister.  She is eternally happy, unless you mention that somebody is going to die before long.  I don't even want to talk about how worried she was at the mention of Possum's mortality.  When it was time for her family to go home, she tearfully gave Possum a goodbye hug.  
Somebody just shoot me.  
Here's a video I made of Morgan in 2007 that I absolutely love.  Back then, she didn't know about death; she only wanted to be able to put her pants on all by herself.  It's a shame we have to lose our innocence at such a young age. 

I killed a possum!

If you think opposums are cute little lovable critters, do not read this entry or scroll down to the pictures; but ever since possums wiped out my whole chicken population years ago, I’ve hated them with a passion.

If you’re reading this VIA Facebook, you are missing seeing pictures.

Sadie had already gone to her doggie bed in the bedroom last night when suddenly she started barking desperately, looking out the window nearest her bed.

I got a flashlight and let her out, following close behind; she went to the deck box in front of our garage and barked like crazy at the space between the deck box and garage. I shone my light into that space and, lo and behold, a possum.

We have big rocks lying in that (weedy) bed of gravel along the house, and I grabbed one and flung it on top of the possum. Then another. Pretty soon the possum was covered with big rocks with nothing but his ugly, growling head sticking out, and I came in and announced my triumph on Facebook. One has to share victories in whatever way is available.

My wise Georgia friend, who has likely had her own struggles with varmints, told me those rocks wouldn’t hold the possum. I called Cliff at work, and he said “get a hammer”. I pointed out that the hammers are way out in the shop, and I was running around in my nightgown with a flashlight.

“Then get a shovel and kill him with that.”

Since the shovels are in the garage near the house, I tried that… one-handed, of course, because I was holding the flashlight in the other hand. Again and again and again, with Sadie going absolutely crazy beside me, I struck at the vile creature. I hate killing anything, even a possum. But I don’t want them taking over my place, either. Who knows, I might want some chickens again sometime.

I saw blood, and the possum stopped growling at Sadie; he was still covered by fifteen-pound rocks.

I announced my triumph (again) on Facebook.

This morning when I went to remove the body, this is all I saw. No possum, only rocks.

I was fairly certain he went off and died someplace, but I sure did want to know for sure.

Then I went out to get rid of some trash and I saw this.

If this happens again, I hope I get a cleaner kill.

Celeste had suggested using a gun, but I don’t touch guns; I’m afraid I’d shoot my fool self, or blast holes in something valuable.

If you go to my wall on Facebook, you can see the whole possum conversation.

Cats on Tuesday

I don't normally participate in this meme; I'm really not a "cat person", and my cats live in the barn (quite happily, I might add).

However, I decided to take this opportunity to introduce you to a southern belle of a cat who lives in Georgia and kindly allows my son and his family to live with her. Her name is Possum, and she's seventeen years old (you'd never know it). I'm an early riser, and this cat greeted me in the kitchen every morning of my visit there, supervising my coffee-making.

Friday I decided to take a nap on my granddaughter's bed; Possum was already there ahead of me, but there was plenty of room for us both, so I laid down and dozed off with no problem. When I woke up, Possum was snuggled against me with her head on my arm, purring hard enough to shake the bed.

So I guess we're friends now. Please don't tell her I'm not a cat person.