He’s:
- lived on the dangerous, unforgiving streets
- survived horrific damage
- had the trauma of surgical separation from his afflicted tail
- been in foster care and then a cage in a tiny shelter
On top of all that Cake is middle-aged (the vet’s guess? around nine). I sure as hell wasn’t as emotionally and physically resilient at 52 (nine-ish in cat years) as I was at 15 (one in cat years).
Still, I was sad that he wasn’t, after a single day, out and about surveying his new kingdom. (Impatient? Who me? NEVAH!) I thought:
- maybe I’m giving off bad vibes
- I'm just not chill enough
- he probably thinks I’m stinky
- he doesn’t like my sartorial statement (but c’mon, doesn’t everyone love tie dye?)
- what if he never warms up to me?
Then I hit acceptance—Cake simply wasn't that into me. I was deeply disappointed but would adjust my needs and unrealistic expectations.
Though I knew he wouldn’t be just like Coco, that was clearly my barely subconscious, pie in the sky wish.
Then this morning happened. As I was getting out of bed, Ten came up the stairs with Cake in his arms. He placed our boy by my side on the bed. Cake did NOT jump down. Nope, he sat down and said to me (oh, yes he did!) Pat me now, woman. What are you waiting for?
Ten went out for his morning walk and Cake, surprisingly, stayed with me. He explored the bedroom (oh look, I fit under the dresser, the area behind this green chair is interesting-ish, the foot of the bed is most comfortable and this bookshelf needs some serious scent marking) and then allowed me to skritch under his chin and brush him for a good long while. I even got to pick him up! Lemme tell you, this fella is a heavyweight. Not fat but molto densely packed.
Later, when Jen was over for her pre-work visit, Cake emerged from one of his downstairs boltholes (behind a stack of paintings) to say hello.
I think we’re gonna be okay after all.
Also, I think Ten putting out a bowl of people tuna helped to move things along.
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