This is Cyrus.
He’s a rescue cat, retrieved from behind a pizza place a municipality or so to the east of us. When we brought him home, he looked like this:
After a few months of free feeding, he looked like this:
But at least he’d stopped dumpster diving in the kitchen. When I was watching. We took steps and started to moderate his caloric intake. Not starving him, but no longer making sure the bowl was always full. These days, he’s much more cat shaped.
He’s the most aggressively affectionate cat I’ve ever know, forcing himself into your lap and up into your face if you’re not paying enough attention. Sometimes, he gets carried away and may nibble the hand or chin he’s rubbing against. He also may be part dog.
He came to live with us on 30 July 2013 after we’d been cat-less for a year.
Our previous feline overlords came to us at a year old and had been with us for 16 years, coming to us at about a year old and afraid of absolutely everything. They spent a long time with us, small, furry members of the family. They left a pair of very large wounds. I still miss them both, and that’s five years in the spring for Xena (the grey tabby) and in the summer for Leo (the orange tabby).
Cyrus didn’t take their place. He made his own. A scraggly little rat my youngest fell in love with, got her sister to as well, and then convinced their mother it was time.
I was an easy sell.
Cyrus will be six sometime soon, though we don’t know exactly when. Or maybe seven. Ages are usually just a best guess with rescue cats. He’s weird, tries to be best friends with our Saint Bernard, was hit by a car sometime during his couple of years outside (long-healed fractures in one hip and a back foot that isn’t quite right), and knows where all of the softest spots in the house are.
He also came to us from the local SPCA. Always go to the shelter first. And last.
Be well, everyone.