This is Morris:
And this is the third in a widely-scattered series of posts about my current feline overlords. Morris is a rescue cat who spent a few months in the shelter system winding up with the unlikely name of Pumpkin but, obviously, had to become Morris. Something about old television commercials and orange tabbies.
We’re fairly certain he was a barn cat or semi-feral, used to people being around, but not super affectionate. He didn’t mind a little attention, but couldn’t really stand being held for more than a few seconds and had no real interest in sitting next to you in the chair or on the sofa.
When we brought him home, he looked like this:
But he has no impulse control, and ballooned quickly:
Well, not too quickly, but too far. He’s on a calorie-restricted diet right now. Hopefully, it doesn’t take too much more time to slim him down than it did to fatten him up. Except it will because it is. Because he has no impulse control, steals dog food, pushes other cats (well, Cyrus) out of their bowls when he can get away with it, and isn’t above thieving some things.
He’s come a long way in the almost three years we’ve had him. He can handle being held for several minutes at a time, will get into bed with you for reasons other than biting your toes, and is fairly demanding of attention if you walk by, pushing up off the floor to headbutt a hand descending to scratch him.
He came home to live with us on 07 November 2015, not even six months after Morgana joined us. The introduction was less gradual this time, making an immediate friend of Cyrus and receiving a few hisses and swats from Morgana to teach him his place in the local feline hierarchy.
These days, he has a preference for dog beds, backpacks left on the floor, and the spare bed in the basement. Oh, and windows. Windows are fun. When we adopted him, the given age was two, making him five now and the youngest feline of the local overlords.
And again, a shelter cat. Happy ending for a shelter cat.
Be well, everyone.by