Harry's Last Mouse

Harry in his youth when he could leap to the high places he loved.

Another cat has gone - and broken my heart.  On the day before we left for Ireland we took Harry to the vet because he was having trouble breathing. An x-ray showed a mass was encroaching on his windpipe, displacing it.  He was sixteen.

Harry's newspaper photo 1999. His best features were his beautiful green eyes.

He was fifteen months old when we saw his photo in the Laramie Boomerang and the statement that he was available for adoption from the shelter. His previous owner called him Iggy. She was visiting him when we arrived. "He likes dried Friskies," she said, "and he loves having his tummy scratched." She was pregnant again, lived in a trailer, and her husband said she could only keep his mother cat. So, we took him home and rechristened him Harry. People thought he'd lost part of his tail, but his father had been a bobbed-tail cat.

Last mouse caught sometime this past summer

Harry was a great mouser until he grew lame and deaf. He hadn't caught a mouse for over a year until he showed up with this one early in the summer. So proud of himself, he had to be photographed. 

He was a lap sitter and when we'd watch TV, he'd cuddle into the crook of my arm and fall asleep. Jay would have to get my tea and make the popcorn because I'd say, "I have a cat on my lap."

He enjoyed sleeping on the porch in the sun.

 Or being near the warmth of the fire.

Most of all, he wanted to sleep between us at night.

We buried him near a young maple tree a short distance from the house. Dear old cat, I wish you happy hunting in your spirit world.