It is with some sadness that we must report the passing of our press cat, Tennyson, after a brief illness, age approximately 16 years. The morning of his last day, as the heat wave broke, he made a final sojourn into the garden to survey his domain. Tennyson came to us in 2003 from the local animal rescue (Lanark Animal Welfare Society) and quickly lived up to his peerage by establishing dominance over all others in the household, in particular choosing the press room as his lordly seat. Mostly content, he occasionally had issues with the servants. In his later days, we indulged him with milk and cream cheese, much to his delight. He is survived by the Printer, who challenged him in philosophical discourse with too infrequent cigars and brandy; the Artist, with whom he frequently slept; and the Apprentice, whom he saw as an opportunity for more cream cheese.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.