Remember when the kitten I found on the side of the road looked like this? Starving, flea-bitten, and generally a mess?
Well, he's doing wonderfully. He's playful, and fluffy and just as sweet as can be. He is so much stronger and steadier than we ever could have imagined. His fur is thick and healthy, and his absurd old-man ear-tufts just keep getting longer and longer. Not surprisingly, since he had to get around with a shattered pelvis, his front legs and shoulders are hugely muscular.
The Little Cat has settled into a very contented life, exploring our house and our gardens, and snoozing and wrestling with his big uncles, Cardigan and Sleeves.
For a cat who had been close to death, starving and with a seriously injury, he's remarkably fearless and happy. He sleeps on our bed every night, and spends most evenings cuddled up with me on the couch. He also enjoys cozying up to our vintage stove, and slurping up the heat from the pilot light.
The Little Dude hasn't yet discovered the Wonderfulness of Robb. And he doesn't understand any of the "won't you please come here" noises that humans make at cats. He seems to understand that when I lean over and wiggle my fingers, something interesting and worth investigating is about to happen.
He loves to play. He keeps trying to engage Linguine in games of "chase me," but she responds to his advances with disdain.
I suspect that after years of being bullied by Mister Firdusi, Linguine was enjoying her life as an Only Child.
Linguine is less than thrilled with all the cats in our lives. She insists that I mention some of the less-than-great things about the Little Dude, like fact that he is still quite stinky, and that we recently discovered that he has tapeworms. Unwanted little brothers are GROSS.