If you would have told me 18 years ago that I’d have a 17 year old cat at this point in my life, I would have given it a good chuckle. I’ve always been a dog person, and while I find cats to be perfectly fine and sometimes adorable, they never fill my soul the way dogs do. And yet, here I am, with a 17-year old Maine Coon.
I read that their lifespan can be “over 15 years” on the breed page, so I’m not sure how much longer I’ve got with him. He’s got cataracts in both eyes, he doesn’t move like he used to, and he can’t jump like he used to. But he still is affectionate—just last night, he met a perfect stranger, and couldn’t have been sweeter to him. And even though he’s always been a grumpy gus, he seems to be pain free and still enjoying his food and company and naps.
So Shadow got his birthday raw egg this morning, to celebrate his 17th trip around the sun. I still am not sure I’d call myself a cat person, but I’m definitely a Shadow person.