They say pets know. They can tell when their master is ill, or when something is wrong; they seem to have a sense about what is going on in our lives.
I have to say that with our Russian Blue, I agree.
Meet Gandalf, otherwise known as Mr. Big Boy. He’s tipped the scales at 18 pounds, but after
several conversations about heart health and exercise restricting his food, he’s now closer to 15.
Gandalf has been a member of our family for three years. I spotted him in a shelter snoozing on a chair pad. Oblivious to his surroundings, I approached with caution. When I saw those emerald eyes, I was hooked and didn’t hesitate long before bringing him home.
Here’s the thing about Gandalf. I AM his person. He follows me everywhere, and is either on my lap or curled up at my feet. He waits by my recliner, sits next to me during mealtime, and whines when I’m gone. He demands attention when people come and go, and seems excited or nervous, as if it’s unsettling. He cries for kibbles when anyone nears the kitchen. He behaves like the resident dog. Our Mr. Big Boy is very chatty, but usually with and because of me.
Until recently, Gandalf never jumped onto Bruce’s lap. Not ever. Bruce isn’t a “cat person.” Not a “dog person” either, Bruce tolerates our furry, feline friends. I believe they know they aren’t his thing, and because they know, they gravitate towards the one my daughter calls The Cat Whisperer.
Imagine our surprise when Gandalf broke the ice.
This video makes me laugh. Gandalf stayed even though Bruce watched the news and did not pet or engage Gandalf in conversation. The most Bruce did was raise his hand.
I saw the wisdom of Gandalf’s ways and believe he knew exactly what he was doing.
I suspect he knows far more than I’ve previously acknowledged.
Meet Otis, Gandalf’s little brother. Otis was a feral, born under our house. The day we captured him he was three months old. He weighed 2.4 pounds, was dehydrated, had low body temperature and an infected eye. That same day he bit my finger. He likes to sit on my chest. He attacks Gandy (and people toes) whenever the mood strikes. We have a love/hate relationship. He’ll be three this May, and can be a real sweet cat when
he isn’t being a turd he’s half asleep.
I doubt he knows what Gandy knows about people. He usually runs for the hills–my box of scrap fabric in the upstairs sewing room–when people come over.
I probably shouldn’t underestimate him. He’s dumb like a fox.
Blessings and thank you for reading. ❤