One never truly knows until the pet comes home how the interaction and blending with existing pets will go, how the days will unfold. This is our first rescue pet.
This male, our Gandalf, from all outward clues, is one happy boy.
He’s quite healthy; heart and lungs are in tip top shape, as are eyes and ears. The vet’s advice: limit available food. Gandalf weighed 15 pounds at first check up. By his second, he was up half a pound. Shoulda named him Tank.
I wasn’t overly worried about his weight as he’s discovered the stairs–a quick escape–when running for cover (our elder girl, Blossom, makes sure he knows who remains Queen of the Hill. She’s older and does not follow). Still, better limit the chow.
Seems his favorite place is behind me while I work. He wedges between me and my chair, and snuggles in for as long as I tolerate my new lump. By the time he’s settled, I am leaning so far forward that typing is difficult. He doesn’t seem to mind the occasional elbow in the nose. I laugh. He’s good for my health. He knows he’s got me wrapped around his paws.
He’s well behaved and social. I believe he was an indoor cat, spent lots of time on someone’s lap. He is quiet at night, goes into his quarters fairly easily, and he does not jump into forbidden areas. (Clever boy hasn’t been caught, yet.)
It’s been a very positive experience. Yes, I rescued him and that’s a GREAT feeling, but my thanks goes to the lap he once snuggled on, the people who turned him into the docile, snuggle buddy he is today.