Chaos settles.

I got Possum when he was about 3-4 weeks old. He was kicked out of his nest multiple times at the barn he was born in so he was brought into the vet clinic where I worked. I agreed to take him home and bottle raise him and thus began the next 18-year odyssey.

Most veterinarians will tell you that bottle-raised kittens are a special breed apart. They can lack cat socialization skills and as they mature, it shows. Possum had no boundaries and an attitude that his shit didn't stink. He could be extra mean and ornery but he loved me enough to try and give me kisses on my lips. My husband often rolled his eyes, grossed out. I loved my Possum.

Possum through the window, making use of the food dish.

When he was older, my friend, Frances once described him as my "cross-eyed cat." I was righteously insulted. NEVER! My baby was not cross-eyed! Wait, was he? OK, maybe a little. A lot. But this cross-eyed cat once jumped 4 feet off the ground and caught himself a squirrel so not an impediment, although he did have a habit of sweeping his head left to right to scan to see you like the red eye from a Battlestar Galactica cyborg.

He had a disturbing habit of dragging my clothes out of my room when we were gone from the house, humping them and howling. I'd find t-shirts and sweatpants under desks, in the kitchen, in the corner of the living room, multiple pieces in multiple places. Sometimes my husband got "the treatment." It was like Possum was mad that we had left him home.

He got along with all the cats and dogs that have rolled through here and by "getting along" I mean he stayed to himself, could co-exist until he got into cat bitch-slapping fights that would last a brief moment and then he would mosey off on his own. He knew his name, followed me around the farm along with the dogs and loved riding my horses, sunning himself on their backs when I led them around the yard to graze. One time he disappeared for about four days and we thought he had died, attacked by a coyote or a snake until he wandered up to the front porch one afternoon with a torn ear, a torn nostril and a swollen nose. Unable to mind-meld with him, we will never know what happened but whatever it was, he survived. Eventually, due to unrelated dental hygiene issues, he lost a canine tooth up top resulting in the bottom canine pushing his lip up. It gave him a snaggle-toothed look from then on, a kitty gangster.

He could be very affectionate, searching out human companionship for lots of pets and scratches but he could also be cranky, swiping at you and trying to bite if you didn't do it just right or he decided he didn't like you anymore. My friend, Sandy, once described him to me, "He is of the Devil!" as he would stand by the door and try to swipe at her ankles when she came to feed when we were out of town. While I could temper his temper and eventually got him to be more affectionate, my husband liked rough housing with him. As a result, Possum flayed him open on more than one occasion. What can I say, he had his moments.

His survival skills kept him going for eighteen years. In his last two years he began sneezing frequently, spraying bloody snot all over the walls in addition to the cat food he flung around because of his dental problems. And he started losing weight. More. More. We began counting down his ultimate demise. "He won't last the summer." "He won't make it to Christmas." "I'll be surprised if he lives past the New Year." And so on. For two years. Blood, food, vomit, skinnier and skinnier, he became a walking skeleton. He developed a cataract in one eye. He went deaf pretty much. And dementia? We'd find him wandering around, howling at nothing. He developed a habit of getting up from the couch, standing and facing me, circling a small circle to the left or right and stop, staring at me, then circling and stopping again and again until he got my attention that he wanted to be fed. Again. It drove me absolutely crazy. As the last years went on, the feedings became incessantly frequent. With three cats, we started going through cans and cans of cat food and bags of dry food. Initially we blamed Hoojie with the hypothyroid condition at 24 lbs but honestly, I rarely saw Hoojie eat. Turns out Possum was eating for himself and whatever growth or tumor was happening in his sinuses. The sneezing got bloodier, he'd occasionally get up coughing like he couldn't breath from a hair ball. His right eye also started sinking into his head in a weird way. The eyelid developed a weird kink that gave him a funky, pirate look. Gangsta Possum. And yet, he'd still pick a fight and run around the house chasing Hooj or Bob. He'd ask to be let outside and wander to the barn to sun himself on the bale of hay between the horse and the dog kennel. Every night he'd do his circle thing to let me know it was time for bed. He'd often be in bed by my pillow before I got under the covers and would snuggle close for warmth, purring loudly until he fell asleep.

Eventually, one week in mid-January, he was sleeping longer and longer, most of the day and stopped eating for a couple of days, only getting up to drink once. It was time and I hate, hate, hate having to make that decision for an animal but I also hate having to see them suffer. Naturally, when I called to make the euthanasia appointment I prefaced the call when they answered by saying, "Hello, I'm gonna start crying so hang on a second," then burst into tears before I could continue the conversation and make the appointment. My husband and I brought Possum in the next afternoon. He was so weak he had trouble standing up. He barely had muscle mass. My vet was great. Sitting in the room, he asked us about Possum and remarked about how long he’d survived. I couldn't stop the tears. My little Possum, what a long and varied life you had!

And yet... when the vet began shaving a place to place the needle, that little bastard let out a howl and started biting and scratching everyone. "Fuck you all, you're not taking me down!" He flayed open my husband one last time, God love it. He definitely took a while but eventually he found his way to the Rainbow Bridge with all his other friends who preceded him. I saved some of his hair that the vet shaved off in a small plastic bag that sits next to my nightstand. We buried him by the barn where he used to sun himself in his last years.

And now, I have to say, the tension, the anxiety, the non-stop chaos in the house, the blood stains, the food on the walls and the floor, the AMOUNT of food we went through, the disaster that was the little box nearly every day... it's all settled down. And so have we, my husband and I. His death has been followed by a relative balanced quietness. I miss him and say hello every time I feed the horse and dogs but, my word, at least now the walls are clean.

Possum, you were one-of-a-kind. Thank you for the experience.