You had to measure him in ounces

When Monroe first showed up at the clinic before we adopted him, he was really a mess. I didn't even know all the facts myself until recently. His desperate owner saw that at feeding time, his mom would shove him away in favor of the other kittens. It's tough being the runt of the litter. His owner adopted him out to someone who liked the idea of a cat a lot more than the reality of a high-maintenance newborn.

He showed up on the clinic's doorstep with no meat on his bones and no fur on his face. His eyes were sealed shut with crud and he was not very responsive. He was really too much for someone to heal at home, so bringing him to the clinic was definitely the right idea.

*Leaving* him at the clinic, though...well, if you can't pay, you can't pay, but usually this means a quick execution for the cat involved.

Monroe found a receptive home at the clinic where my then-s.o. worked, though. The boss came in a little while after Mo did. She saw him in the cage and said "what is THAT?" No one could say much of anything other than that he was a sick kitten with no owner. By the time the boss had her things put away, Mo was the first thing she looked at.

She flipped when she saw the shape he was in.

She immediately took command. Mo became the center of attention for a little while that morning--YOU, get a towel warmed up in the dryer; YOU, get some liquid food warmed up; YOU, get fluids ready; YOU, get some antiseptic wipes and clean up his face.

He was so raggedy and beat up by being so sick for so long so early in his life that it was definitely touch and go those first few days. He was desperately short of calories. Here's where his personality comes into play.

Monroe is the biggest pig in his particular feline zip code. He appears to eat kibble and wet food by the bowlful all in one gulp. To this day, he powers through bowls full of food and looks around for more.

When he was trying to bounce back at the clinic those first few days, he would respond reasonably well to the heat, the cleaning, the fluids, and the other basic measures everyone took to bring him back from the edge. But the food. Wow, the food--and the appetite. If he wasn't such a pig, he never could have taken on enough calories to bounce back.

He'd stumble around coughing and squinting like he was aiming for an Oscar in a hospital drama, and then a bowl of victuals would appear in front of him. And he'd fall face-first into it, purring just about loud enough to shake the walls of the kennel, devouring every scrap that was put in front of him.

He still eats like his life depends on it. Not like he needs the sustenance, like the rest of us--like his life depends on the calories he takes on in the next couple of minutes. He'll get older and it'll probably be pretty tough to maintain his weight, actually. But for right now he just acts cute when there's a sound of cans, bags, tupperware, cellophane, or other food wrapping from anywhere in the northeast corner of the house (where the kitchen is). Then he goes outside in any weather--cold, wet, snow, sleet, hail, he's a regular mailman. He gallops around and it's no wonder he stays just within the acceptable range for body weight.

A couple of weeks ago, Mo went in to the clinic for an annual checkup. the technicians who worked on him came in to goggle at his huge body, enormous plumed tail, leonine rough, and general good health. One of them exclaimed "look at you! No more monkey face!" He's really grown into himself, that one.

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