- May 6, 2023
- 12
- 9
- 3
The twolegs have done what they can to give Mouser a cozy existence. In a cage on his lonesome, stuffed with fabric and bedding, the old tom is resting far off from where the drama of these last few sunrises have been. Things seemed to have settle down some, but never enough. Feral cats are always something else– pacing about their cages, yelling at every poor soul that walks past. A few twolegs had come through to his cage bearing scratches from a less behaved one, and one particular twoleg kit had taken extra time to snuggle him with tears in her eyes after a failed attempt at socializing another of the captures. Here, in this cage, Mouser is safe. He is loved again, and has been for years. Some have tried to take him home, some have looked at him seriously, yet always he would return.
Too difficult to care for. Not a good fit for their household. He doesn't hold it against them anymore. Others come and go, and Mouser coaches them through how to deal with the twolegs, warns them of what they will go through, assures them that it is survivable. He has seen much of this place, has seen the best and the worst of all who come through here. It is his job, in a way. To take care of them, or at least to try.
So from his cozy cage, in a quiet place of the shelter, the elderly tom works his way closer to the front. He can see the others from here, and hear some of their louder protests. "Stop fighting," he calls out in a voice much like a rasp. "Do you all want to end up like your friend? The twolegs are not here to harm you."
Too difficult to care for. Not a good fit for their household. He doesn't hold it against them anymore. Others come and go, and Mouser coaches them through how to deal with the twolegs, warns them of what they will go through, assures them that it is survivable. He has seen much of this place, has seen the best and the worst of all who come through here. It is his job, in a way. To take care of them, or at least to try.
So from his cozy cage, in a quiet place of the shelter, the elderly tom works his way closer to the front. He can see the others from here, and hear some of their louder protests. "Stop fighting," he calls out in a voice much like a rasp. "Do you all want to end up like your friend? The twolegs are not here to harm you."
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ooc: —
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──── monsieur mouser, casually known as mouser.
──── elderly shelter cat. dmab male, and neutered.
ancient as he is, life alone is a miracle for mouser. but when one takes in the extent of his scars, it becomes even more so. his dark, silvery-tinged fur is broken up by heavy scarring along his back leg and tail, with one bright yellow eye turned glossy with blindness. - "speech"