MSI Press Blog

  Most people never live with a nineteen‑year‑old cat. I’ve lived with two. That alone is extraordinary. For a Himalayan, it borders on miraculous. But what astonishes me even more is how two cats could reach the same rare age and inhabit it as if they were living in different universes. Murjan: The Cat Who Filled the Room Murjan, my Turkish Van, was a force of nature from the moment he arrived. He didn’t walk through life — he announced himself through it. At nineteen, weighing less than five pounds after years of lymphoma and three and a half years of chemotherapy, he still: patrolled every room jumped on and off exam tables explored new vet offices like a tourist on holiday demanded his daily leash walk supervised every creature in the house communicated constantly, loudly, and with purpose He was alpha to the end — a cat who refused to surrender even as his body thinned to nothing. He left a footprint everywhere he went, and when he moved, he left a wake. Murjan didn’t age. He...

  Some cats pass through your life. Murjan lived in mine. He wasn’t just a companion — he was a presence. A cat who sat at the Thanksgiving table in his own chair, waiting politely for his plate because he knew he belonged. A cat who walked on a leash like a gentleman explorer, then let the other cats parade him around the house afterward, leash trailing like a royal sash. In the evenings, we had our conversations. I’d talk; he’d listen, then answer with a slow, deliberate lick to my hand. Back and forth, like two old friends catching up after a long day. And when he was done, he’d rest his head on my lap and drift to sleep, content. He had opinions, too. When we moved without consulting him, he staged a full protest: escaped outside, rolled in mud, marched back to the door, shook it all over the floor, and stalked off — message delivered. Nineteen years with him wasn’t enough. But every memory is still warm. Happy Caturday, Murjan. You were one of a kind, and you are stil...

Carl and Murjan , at table Carl loved food. Not in the way people love snacks or comfort meals. He loved food like a musician loves sound—deeply, reverently, with curiosity and delight. He grilled with precision, plated with flair, and never met a cuisine he didn’t want to explore. Ethiopian injera, Vietnamese pho, Sicilian caponata—he welcomed them all. Food was his passport, his playground, his poetry. Carl didn’t binge. He didn’t eat to numb or escape. He ate because he loved the taste, the textures, the craftsmanship. He ate like some people chase sunsets or symphonies. It was his feel-good stuff. 🍽️ When Passion Meets Physiology Carl’s appetite was joyful, but it was also relentless. Over time, his body bore the weight of his enthusiasm—literally. He developed health complications, including cancer, and his doctors noted that his size played a role. This isn’t a cautionary tale. It’s a complexity tale. Some people eat to soothe emotions. Others eat to chase flavor. Some ...