Bones

Lemme give you an example. Some cats get a kick out of stuffed mice or plastic springs. Not for me, babe. You want to play with me, you’d better get out your best wand toys. Don’t kid yourself—I might still ignore you, especially if I’m due for a nap. Some people say you can always get my attention with a wand toy, but don’t believe them. I play when I feel like it. The fact that I usually feel like it—that’s nobody’s business but mine.

Ditto with catnip. Hey, everybody’s entitled to their thing. I mean, some humans have stuff they’re into, like maybe chocolate or beer. For me, it’s a great big whiff of dried catnip. I really get into it, and maybe it mellows me for a second—or maybe it excites me. Depends on the day. Just don’t take it away, or I might have a thing or two to say.

That’s another thing: I’m a guy who says what he means. I know, people see how soft and sweet I look, and they think I’m a real pussycat, but don’t kid yourself. I’m a big brown tiger with a whole lot of white parts, as well as light green eyes that’ll charm your socks off, but honey, I’m a guy who speaks his mind. I mean it—I have a whole vocabulary, from muttering under my breath to growling to occasionally yowling or hissing if you do something lousy like take my catnip away. You think you know a lot of words? That’s nothing compared to what you’ll hear if you take away my catnip.

Some people think I’m a gruff dude. Truth is, I kinda like that. Just don’t listen to the POA folks, like that chick who works at the shelter and says I’m a sweetheart. (Gag me with a hairball!) She tells people that when she comes in, she finds me sitting on her desk like I’m waiting for her—plus, she says I hang out with her all day. She even told somebody I sit on her lap. Lies, all lies, I’m telling you. I’m just nice to her so she’ll offer me catnip and stuff, and then I sleep up on that cabinet next to her while she works. Some of the other volunteers say I let them pet me and I play with them, but don’t listen to them, either. I have a reputation to protect, you know.

Bottom line: I live life on my own terms. I’m ten years old—almost eleven—and I haven’t had a home of my own in a really long time. When that’s how you live, you have to make your own rules, so here’s mine: I choose my people, they don’t choose me. You want to come in and meet me, that’s fine. We can hang out and talk, and maybe play with a wand toy or roll around in a bit of catnip, and maybe if you respect my way of doing things, I’ll pick you. (Just so you know, it’s probably better if you don’t have young kids, because little ones can have a hard time learning my rules.) As far as other cats go, let’s say I’m cat-selective. What I mean is that if you’ve got a cat who isn’t going to bother me, or maybe some goofy little peanut of a kitten I can pretty much ignore, that’ll likely be okay.

There’s one other thing I should probably mention, and that’s that I’m FIV-positive. Life on the streets’ll do that to a guy. So far, it hasn’t had an effect on me, and there’s no reason it should keep me from living a long, healthy life, but I figured I should tell you. The POA folks can explain all about it.

So, that’s me, Bones. If you want to stop by and say hi, that’d be okay with me. You’ll have to fill out the application (link in comments)—that’s POA’s rule, not mine. Their placement team will be in touch by email to answer any questions, walk you through the process, and give you an appointment to meet all the available cats—including me, Bones. If you aren’t in a position to adopt at this time, or if you and I aren’t a match, you can still help by spreading the word so that maybe I finally can find my perfect home with my chosen people. After all this time, that would be nice. Really nice, in fact. So, thanks.