How forgiving our animals are of our cruelty, and how loving they are; they forget the pain and beg for affection. This poor boy was born in a basement in Manhattan, where he was found, half starved, eating cardboard after being locked in there alone. He was rescued and sent to an animal control facility, where some kind soul took him in; they named him "Roach" because of the way he skittered along the walls, hiding from them (we chose a name that rhymes, sort-of. I hate the name they gave him.) The poor guy spent several years as an apartment cat in the city, then moved here to Allentown, where he spent his adulthood with his lady and her grown children; not such a bad gig. A second marriage brought a second family and the aforementioned 4 year old; unfortunately, in his frail state, I'm sure he found it difficult to escape her. He's our second Freecycle cat; Hobie, who came to us several years ago, still lives with us, as does his adopted brother, Gris-Gris (SPCA). They look like a couple of Sumo wrestlers next to Grandpa, who only weighs 6 pounds.
After a checkup with our family vet and a can of wet food, Grandpa is sleeping soundly upstairs in our sunroom, where we'll keep him safe from harm. He can dream his days away, for as long as he has them; this poor old man has found his safe haven at the Eckert-Bourdelle house of geriatric cats. He deserves a break, and we're seeing to it that he gets one. He reminds me so much of my old girl Buppy, who lived to the ripe old age of 21. In peace. I sure do miss her.