You had the cheekiest little face. I used to sit and watch you running around your cage when you were small, ready to catch you when you decided to hang from the top.
For the first two years, you barely seemed to age. Sure, you were a little slower to wake and I didn't have to worry about catching you because you stopped dangling from the top door, but there was nothing else. You were always so strong and quick.
But you were still an old man. Four months after your second birthday, I found you wobbling all over the place with a head tilt, seemingly unable to work out how to use your front leg. I honestly thought that was the beginning of the end, but it wasn't. You seemed to recover from the stroke, and even though you were slowing down more than ever, you seemed just as bright, alert and happy as always. Still the same cheeky face, even if you were finally beginning to look your age.
Until yesterday evening, I assumed you'd keep going for another few weeks. But something was off. You were eating, sure, and walking around a little too, but you still weren't quite 'you'.
I knew what I'd see when I looked at your home this evening. I didn't want to be right, but I knew I would be. You were gone.
Two years and seven months old. You fought bravely, little man, and you lived a great, long life. I'll never forget you.
