Archie came home with me as a very tiny kitten. I saw him in a yard on my way to the train one year, right before Thanksgiving. I stopped and petted him, and hoped that he belonged to someone.
When I came home a few hours later, down that same street, he was still there, but a bunch of kids were throwing stones at him. So I threw a few stones at the kids, grabbed the kitten and zipped him into my jacket.
He was tiny. Tiny, I tell you.
Now he's over 20 pounds, so big he can't turn around to clean himself all the time. And he wheezes and snuffles and waddles around, but according to the vet, he's healthy as a little pig. (Or a not-so-little pig.)
And yes, she gets on me about his weight, but it's not that he eats a lot anymore; apparently he just has the metabolism of a speed bump. His idea of playing is to lie on his back and languidly wave a paw at whatever toy I have. He doesn't even chase the red dot, except with his eyes.
He's had some boy-cat urinary tract issues and spends most of his time in the front room with Ozzie --they were both supposed to be on special food, but they're managing fine without it now, but socially . . . they're a little unskilled. And Archie, much as I love him, torments Lily. And nobody torments Lily. He's literally big enough to crush her if he tried, or even if he didn't, and all she has to do is see his face to start screaming like a hysterical 3 year old.
I can just hear Archie saying, "I'm not touching you!" and Lily howling, "Mom!"
No. I'll keep them separate for the sake of my sanity.
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