I got my first cat when I was 7 years old.
Poerk had to cope with 9 times moving house. Probably for cats moving house is the same traumatic as losing one of their 9 lives.
After our last move 18 years later, in the very small attic room he shared with me in the centre of the Alkmaar, Poerk suddenly grew older and thinner very fast. His joints became stiff and he preferred to lie on a cushion in the direct heat of my desk lamp. For that purpose I left the lamp on day and night. It was 1990 and I never had heard of cherry pit pillows or electric mini blankets yet. He was like an egg in an incubator.
Every Friday night I transported him 200 kilometres in my car to other end of the Netherlands, where my boyfriend studied and where we spent the weekend. My boyfriend's room was bigger than mine and he had the luxury of a balcony too.
Poerk did not offer any resistance when I carried him in my arms through the busy main shopping street to my car. People always looked somewhat amused; such a big brave cat in a busy shopping street looked misplaced.
Like almost all elderly cats, a kidney problem had developed and beside advising a special diet, there was nothing more the vet could do.
When it seemed my precious grey gentleman constantly got dizzy and finally even fainted, I had to take him to the vet ... for the very last time.
I'm sure you cat lovers know the drill. The death of a cat means crying loud for 3 days. And then another 3 weeks weeping softly.
