Roscoe: a love story for Valentine’s Day

How could you say no to this face?

How could you say no to this sad face?

Roscoe is one of our two Maine Coon shelter mutts.  A big galoot weighing in at about 22 pounds, he is always finding himself in awkward situations, mostly where he thinks that he is a much smaller cat.  He has a little plaintive mew, and he’s not unlike a tiny Mike Tyson (minus the ear-biting).

When we first met ‘Bill’ at the shelter we played with him, but I was unimpressed with his smelly matted yucko fur.  As we were about to put him back in his crate, he decided to go completely limp, and passive-aggressively slide out of Ben’s arms backwards onto the floor.  It was at that moment that a love connection was made, and ‘Roscoe’ was coming home with us.  Because, as the shelter workers said, someone’s got to love the big galoots.

He weighed about 13 pounds when we first got him, and within a few hours, he decided that he loved it here, and made himself quite at home.

Roscoe settles in at home on his first day.

Roscoe settles in at home on his first day.

Over the years, Ben and Roscoe have been quite inseparable.  Roscoe spends many mornings curled up next to Ben in bed.  They constantly hang out on the couch, and if Roscoe wore pants, he would also hang a paw down the front.  They have even shared a Snuggie for two.

Nope, no room for a third in this Snuggie.

Nope, no room for a third in this Snuggie.

But there has been no more definitive proof of Roscoe’s undying love for Ben than last week when Ben went to CA for a conference for an entire week, leaving me to administer the cats’ routine of feedings, insulin shots (for Roscoe), litter boxes, and nightly toothbrushing.

Monday morning, Roscoe didn’t finish his breakfast.  I came home, and by dinner, they hadn’t finished their dinner either.  The rest of the week was fairly similar.  I didn’t know whether to give insulin, or if I was giving insulin incorrectly, or whether I needed to give more insulin. Also, he was pretty much silent all week, which is abnormal given that he’s usually very conversational, especially at mealtime.

In addition to the weird feeding, Roscoe was not in any of his usual haunts—he just stayed most of the week on Ben’s side of the bed.  I’d leave him there in the morning, and find him there in the evening, just huddled in a lump on the bed.

Not only was he being weird, but Riley, our other much more cat-like cat, was basically glued to his side all week.  Most of the time, the two cats pretend to not love each other on a regular basis, with Roscoe spending most of his time bullying Riley.  But they were constantly together like peas and carrots, all week long.  It was so odd that I started to wonder if this was in any way related to the stories of cats that can identify oncoming death.

Monday, sad.  Tuesday, sad.  Thursday, sad.  Friday, still sad.

Monday, sad. Tuesday, sad. Thursday, sad. Friday, still sad.

I started to wonder at what point I might need to take Roscoe to the vet.  I reported all these symptoms to Ben and he seemed unconcerned, so I figured I would take Roscoe to the vet if he was still acting weird at the end of the week.

Ben came home on Saturday night, and Roscoe mewed his greeting, and rolled around on the floor to show his belly.  And ate his dinner.  And cuddled in bed that night.  And ate his breakfast normally the next day.  And basically gave me a scare for nothing—apparently he was just in a deep kitty depression for the week.

So happy together.

So happy together.

Incontrovertible proof that Roscoe and Ben were meant to be.  Cat and hooman.   Together furever.  Happy (early) Valentine’s Day.

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