bag of bones

Poor boy.

The card says he's only a year old, but to look at him, he's used up about three lifetimes. He doesn't have a tail, but I'm skeptical that he's a manx. His bones don't feel right down there. He has a cauliflower ear, all bent over and creased. He's dirty and smells bad, and he has snot streaming from his nose, a symptom of the deadly Town Lake URI of doom. He's a bag of bones, he's not terribly pretty, and he was labeled "fractious" on his very first day at the pound.

This one wasn't supposed to make it.

But he's home, hanging out in my tiny bathroom. It's not the most accomodating of living spaces, but it's bigger than a cage, and there's no one with a euthanizing needle around the corner. Whoever called him fractious should see the way he likes to sit in my lap and be brushed. He would purr if he were able to breathe with his mouth closed, but for now, I know what he means.

It'll be a while before I've been able to cure his URI, brush the dirty fur out and allow clean fur to grow back in, get him neutered, and fatten him up until he's presentable, but when I do...

you won't even recognize him anymore.