If you recall where my story left off… Bob, the best cat in the world, had just passed away. We were considering adopting another kitty, but we decided it was too soon. Gracie, the first official Dope kitty, never seemed to pull out of her funk, gradually becoming more and more clingy. We couldn’t leave the room without her following, and forget about shutting a door between her and us. Most days, she could be found sleeping in the crate that we took Bob to the pet hospital in, or snoozing on his favorite blanket. She refused food, dropped weight, and spent most nights either yowling relentlessly or pacing the house checking Bob’s favorite sleeping spots over and over. People who think that cats cannot show grief are clearly out of their minds. As much as we weren’t ready to bring home a new cat, we weren’t ready to lose another either, and we started worrying that we were headed that direction in short order if Gracie didn’t find a friend.
So off to the local shelter we went, apprehensive and a little close-minded. We really weren’t ready for another cat. Our Bob was special, dammit, and it was going to take one hell of a cat to replace him. We circled the shelter once, finding nothing of real interest. Plenty of kittens, yes, but everyone wants kittens. People were squealing over them left and right, and there was no doubt that they’d all find good homes within a week or two. Since the local shelter is not a no-kill, we were sure we wanted an adult cat. Nobody wants the adult cats, it seems. Our eyes settled on the door marked “Special Adoptions”. Usually reserved for cats with serious health or behavioral issues, behind this door lay the baddest of the bad, the worst of the worst. The cats that were sick, or that nobody would adopt, or that someone had adopted before and brought back because they shredded the drapes or peed on the rug. Opening the door, our eyes settled on a cage in the corner, and the occupant huddled within.
Six years old, filthy, unneutered, matted and one big beast of a tomcat. Found huddled under a dumpster in the sub-zero freezing weather of Ohio’s mid-February snowstorms, he had serious frostbite on all of his paw pads, as well as scabs and broken teeth from fighting. Wheezing from a respiratory infection, he glared at us from his cage, ready to rip off our hands if we dared reach inside. Bending down, I carefully opened the door to his cage and fourteen pounds of feline fury lunged out, straight at my ankles. Fiercely, with all of his weight, he threw himself at my legs… purring. Rubbing against my legs as hard as he could, he looked up at me and meowed softly before falling over in exhaustion. I picked him up and cradled him like a baby as he lay limply in my arms and looked up at me happily. I looked at my husband. Sold.
Sigh. I’m such a sucker.
Everybody, meet Jackson. Neutered, cleaned up, brushed, pumped full of antibiotics and with his feet patched as much as possible, he came home this week. He’s currently snoozing on the couch, warily eyeing my two tiny four-pound dogs, Chester and Charlie, as if they may eat him at any second. Or he may eat them, he hasn’t decided. He’s already in love with Gracie. Who wouldn’t be? And Gracie? I think she may have put on a pound or two already. 
I don’t know why more people don’t do it. Kittens are cute, but it doesn’t last that long and they’re more trouble to care for.
