MSI Press Blog

  Tiger asleep on Anemone's wheelchair, one of his favorite spots Tiger really is a tiger, for all practical intents and purposes. An orange tabby, he looks like one. A feral even after 14 years, he behaves as one.  Raised as an only child (after his sister died at the too-young age of one), he was the central focus in the life of my disabled adult daughter, Anemone, living independently and alone after the too-early death of her fiancé. That made her Tiger's central focus. They bonded deeply.  Tiger followed Anemone everywhere. He would ride around on the arm of her wheelchair, which he, naught boy, would sometimes use as a scratching pad -- the pads had to be replaced from time to time. At times, he even slept there. He would also nestle down on her lap for a long sleep.  When she snapped her fingers, he came running. And when anyone came to the door (which was very seldom), he stood guard, tail up and quivering, claws at the ready. And he would spring -- from his...

  Some cats arrive in your life like a whisper. Bobolink was more like a vow. He came to me at six months old, a street rescue with FIV. The SNIP bus rescuer had named him  Boulder —because he wouldn’t move from a single step, trembling and crying when touched. He was considered unadoptable. But once inside my home, everything changed. Happy Cat , my beta cat, took a special interest in him. Within weeks, Boulder was wrestling with his big brother, pouncing, running, and radiating joy. I renamed him  Bobolink , after the bird whose song feels like a burst of sunlight. For five years, he was just that—sunlight. He slept beside me every night, not just for affection, but for the warmth his body came to need. He was my shadow, my comfort, my quiet pal. Then came year six.  He was diagnosed with autoimmune hemolytic anemia, likely linked to his FIV. The vet recommended euthanasia. I pushed back. We tried statins, but his white blood cell count kept falling. Follow-up vis...

  Moo yucking Because we found some unwanted guests emanating from Tiger (worms, probably pre-installed before he moved here from an insect-infested apartment), the whole feline crew got a dose of deworming. Moo, our lanky teenage optimist, was thrilled —a new experience! He even opened his mouth like a baby bird, ready for the mystery morsel. I dropped in the pill. And then… betrayal. His eyes widened in cinematic disbelief. Was this poison? With operatic flair, he launched the pill halfway across the room, then began a dramatic tongue routine—rapid in-out flicks, punctuated by a chorus of “yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck…” that lasted a full minute. The only meow he ever uses came next—a high-pitched squeal of accusation. Then, with the dignity of a wronged prince, he turned his back, leapt off the counter, and vanished into the bedroom. Guess we’re shopping for the liquid version. For more posts about Moo (the un-cat), click HERE . Learn more about cats. See our many  Caturda...