Introducting Tolstoy (no, this is not a Lit class)

The first entry here, back when this was a WordPress blog, was about my departed cat Pushkin, who I met as Joey until I relieved her of that horrid name.  I augmented my household with Miles, a wonderful little black cat who departed this life on June 25, 2002, victim of a premature death (he was only 7 years old) from a cancerous liver.

He was replaced (so to speak) two weeks later with a large, red-orange cat from the local shelter, a 75% Abyssinian I named Tolstoy.  I like Russian authors.  Lookie-look and click on the thumbnail:


When I got him he weighed about 15 pounds and was looooong.  He’s still long but he’s become bit of a blimp.  Eating well will do that to you.  He and his buddy Casper, one of Marie’s imported kitties from Ohio, run around the house fighting at 2 AM, stuffing their faces, and taunting the dog.

It took Tolstoy awhile to fit in here.  When he came around he was joining a household as Cat #4 to replace Miles.  He spent a couple of days hiding under the bed.  I’d bring in wet food and let him eat from my finger, then out of a dish.  He also had his own litterpan.  Not rocket science to figure that the little (?) guy was scared.  He’d been been bounced around more than a kid in a Charles Dickens orphanage.  He’d been turned out of his previous residence by a family that decided they had too many cats.  So Tolstoy was the choice to be downsized.  That suited me because I’d been downsized too.  A week in the shelter and then someone grabs him and puts him into a carrier to go to our house.  Confusion is normal.

When we opened the door and he wandered out “into population,” he immediately became the major mischief-maker of the “pack.”  We were warned he was an escape artist, and yes, he tried to get out of the house and take all the other cats with him.  Thank God the dog came back from his walk and literally herded the cats into the house. 

Tolstoy is the bedroom cat like Pushkin before him.  When Pushkin got old, in the last year of her life (she died at 16 or 17), she would crawl into bed with me as she did every night of our 9 years together, but now she’d get under the covers to keep warm.  Tolstoy just jumps in there and spreads his infernal pet dander all over the room.  He coos, chirps, purrs, and vocalises more than Placido Domingo before a performance.  He snuggles.  He kisses.  And when he’s had enough doing cat therapy, he nips.  Little beast.:-)  He’s friendly, temperamental, and altogether a gorgeous big kitty. He has (ta-da) Cattitude. And I love him to death.


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