• Pets

    Caturday: This is Morgana

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    This is Morgana.

    She’s a rescue cat who spent a few months in the shelter system before we happened across her when my daughter was looking for a cat to bring home, having decided that’s what she wanted for her upcoming birthday. Before the shelter, Morgana spent a winter outside, fed by a neighbour after being abandoned. When we brought her home, she looked like this:

    After a few months she looked like this:

    You may not see the difference.

    Eventually, we put her on super low calorie dry food and diet wet food. These days, she looks like this:

    You still may not see the difference, but she’s down a couple of pounds.

    Still not exactly thin, but we’ll get there.

    Note also the ear tips. Or lack of them, really. During that winter she spent outside, there was a case of frostbite. Winter in Ontario, even in southern Ontario, isn’t kind to shorthaired cats who should live inside.

    She hates being picked up but loves being held and has a fondness for high places.


    We’d had only one cat, King Cyrus the First,


    for coming up on two years when the agreement was finally struck for a second feline companion and while Cyrus was perfectly happy to make immediate friends, she took a while to warm up to him. They’re quite close now.

    She came home to live with us on 25 May 2015, and we did a gradual introduction to the house, with her initial primary residence being Oldest Daughter’s room. These days, she can usually be found on beds and in piles of laundry, though she’ll stake out open shopping bags as her territory, too, and has a strange fondness for plastic ones.

    When she arrived home, the best guess at her age was five years, which makes her seven now, and either the same age as, or a little older than, Cyrus. Has a few years on Morris, though. More about him another post.

    And again, a shelter cat. Shelter first.

    {insert sleeping picture}

    Be well, everyone.

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  • Pets

    Caturday: Meet Cyrus

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    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:

    Bring me Solo and a cookie.

    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.


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