2026-09-12

Eulogy for my Potato

Pysio died in his seventh year. He had been in my family’s care for two days when it happened. He seemed to go peacefully. We knew it might be coming: he was eating less, struggling to move and scratch himself, and losing his fur.

But that is not how I will remember him.

I will remember a fighter. He growled at people. He tossed his head in anger if you stroked him the wrong way. He bit. He never backed down.

He had strong opinions, and teeth with which to express them.

Those teeth also caused him suffering. One became so overgrown that it had to be surgically removed. The vet warned us that the operation was complicated. He might not survive. Even if he did, he might never eat again.

The first thing he did when he woke up was go for a meal.

When it was time to remove his stitches, it took three veterinary assistants to try to hold him still. He was an unstoppable motherfucker: 1,600 grams, roughly 25 centimetres long, and absolutely unwilling to cooperate.

He outlived his companion, whom he hadn’t liked very much. I knew guinea pigs needed company, and it hurt that we couldn’t take in another one. Pysio was already a few years old by then. I worried about him being alone.

He, however, seemed happier.

I loved that stubborn little bastard.

He loved mint. We grew it for him, and I picked the youngest leaves to feed him. There was something quietly lovely about that: growing a plant so this particular potato could have his favourite thing.

The day before he died, he wouldn’t eat.

For a boy who had woken up from surgery and gone straight for food, that said a lot.

I cry for him. I know his absence will leave an emptiness in my soul that I will carry for the rest of my life. Much bigger than he was.

And, as I’ve said, he was a big boy.

I don’t know whether God exists. But one thing I’m certain of: if he does, he got his finger bitten today.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.