So, there we were with three cats. That's dangerously close to the "collector stage." You hear about people like that--the city finally breaks their doors down and finds their house filled with animals. We weren't that close, but I felt like we were! I never knew how the house would smell when I returned home from work, and would frequently have people meet me elsewhere if they needed to see me. This was not a favorite stage of life.
Adding insult to percieved injury, the kittens played with each other and did no more than aggravate Gus; the hoped for exercise was just wishful thinking on our part, and he remained a 25 pound cat.
One sad night, I looked back at Gus as I made my way from the living room to the bedroom and I noticed him laying in a strangely still manner on the living room floor. He was gone. He must have had a massive heart attack while following me back to my room. We gave him an Egyption style burial in the back yard, sending him to the afterlife with a can of tuna and a baggy full of meow mix. We said a few words over his grave, and I cried for days. Strange behavior for a person who doesn't like cats!