My parents cat - he was originally my cat and dad finagled a way of keeping his "fishing buddy" when I left home - was put peacefully to rest today at 19 years of age. My parents, so far away right now, cried as I told them over the phone. They knew it was almost time. And they know they could not do it themselves.
In his hey day, Willie was a behemoth of a cat, running at a fit 11kg's - he was huge. Black as night and the most amazing green eyes. He was my first rescue. He was placid and smoochy. He lived in a house on the river and he spent his mornings sitting on the front of dad's boat as dad took his fish out of the nets, or on the tree limb above dad's head. Dad used to get a tap on the head - his call for fish. Willie was an expert at falling out of the tree. Dad was an expert at fishing him out of the river. Willie never attempted to catch the plethora of river birds that make dad's jetty his home - the ducks, the egrets, gulls and swans. He just watched them with those eyes, watched them eat his share of the fish.
He gave head bunts on asking and purred; a deep rumble from his chest. He rumbled today for me, as I loved him, as he gave me one last bunt, as he breathed his last. They don't make many like you, big boy. As dad would day, "Au revoir, Wilbur".Willie - King of Cats
, on Flickr