Possum of the Desert

I woke up this morning early and went outside to see if Possum had come back. She was missing all day yesterday, but that's not unusual; she's been known to take hunting trips, but hadn't done this since birthing her kittens, who are now about 2 months old. I sat on the step and called her, my usual morning routine. Her two kittens, Paco and Fredo, knowing that my calling means "chowtime!" crawled out of their hiding place to look for food and then played with whatever was moving. Kittens are so much fun to watch. Our neighbor Anne calls it "cat TV." But after 20 minutes, still no Possum.

I walked around awhile to see if she was somewhere else, but I wasn't optimistic; she's a real people cat and a love muffin. If there's a chance she'll get her head scratched, she's there in a hurry. We call her our "greyhound" because she'll fairly fly to get to us. When I go walking and exploring, she's usually right with me, and almost always brings a live lizard back to her kids. She's a good little mama and a great huntress. For a teenage mother, she had an incredible maternal instinct.

I miss little Possum. I can't help it, but I am already grieving her loss. The desert can be a fabulous playground for the outside cats, but it's also a very dangerous warzone. A month ago we lost one of Possum's kittens, a frisky little black charmer named Oso, to a hawk. But Oso was very adventurous from the start, and that's probably what made him easy prey. His brothers, Paco and Fredo, are more timid--particularly Fredo who is scared of his own shadow. Possum was always on the lookout for trouble, and I felt like she was the safest of our outdoor kids.

It's now early afternoon and still no Possum, my girl with the beautiful eyes and lightning speed. Paco and Fredo and I will miss her.