We've been told that Stanley and Rose are not purebreds (which is why they were in rescue as young as they were) but are definitely in some large fraction Maine Coons:
Maine Coons develop slowly, and don't achieve their full size until they are three to five years old. Their dispositions remain kittenish throughout their lives; they are big, gentle, good-natured goofs. Even their voices set them apart from other cats; they have a distinctive, chirping trill which they use for everything from courting to cajoling their people into playing with them. (Maine Coons love to play, and many will joyfully retrieve small items.) They rarely meow, and when they do, that soft, tiny voice doesn't fit their size!
While Maine Coons are highly people-oriented cats, they are not overly-dependent. They do not constantly pester you for attention, but prefer to "hang out" with their owners, investigating whatever activity you're involved in and "helping" when they can. They are not, as a general rule, known as "lap cats" but as with any personality trait there are a few Maine Coons that prefer laps. Most Maine Coons will stay close by, probably occupying the chair next to yours instead. Maines will follow you from room to room and wait outside a closed door for you to emerge. A Maine Coon will be your companion, your buddy, your pal, but hardly ever your baby.
Maine Coons are relaxed and easy-going in just about everything they do. The males tend to be the clowns while the females retain more dignity, but both remain playful throughout their lives. They generally get along well with kids and dogs, as well as other cats. They are not as vertically-oriented as some other breeds, prefering to chase objects on the ground and grasping them in their large paws -- no doubt instincts developed as professional mousers. Many Maine Coons will play "fetch" with their owners.
YES! it's like that. Rose is funny, Stanley's hilarious. Neither has meowed though they never stop trilling, it's wonderful. We've learned five and a half indoor cats are too many, so, not counting the inevitable rescue that will be thrust upon us, if these are the last two until they die in twenty years, yay me. Fleabus?
Loves to play with them until she sees us seeing her play with them and then she gets pissy. It's like she's playing POTUS 12 on a blog. O and twooter, look at the twootwhore I am, 500+ twoots in less than two months, what to call twooter angst, it can't be called bleggalgazing (though this guy bleggalgazes his twooter angst). Truth in some small fraction is that twooter makes burying links like acorns for harvesting for next post easy, but still. Twooteroscopy?
- All photos by Planet.
- Villagers love this shit. I bet Diane Rehm devotes an entire segment of her smarmy and self-congratulatory Friday circle jerk to it.
- Thought experiment.
- Behind anomie lines.
- Shoot the messenger.
- Has Occupy been a dream?
- Decay of perspective.
- Romney: The curse of the trochee.
- This ripe moment.
- Motherfucking Obama.
- From Mr Fish:
- The very real danger of genetically modified food?
- Purple Line promotional video!
- There is no try. Speaking of twooter, I replied to a Goff twoot re: the ominous silence of DCU's offseason and was followed within fifteen minutes by ten people.
- Loft and turf and Elkin.
- Serendipity: I literally pressed Against the Day into P's hands yesterday.
- Markson on Gaddis.
- Two new Goldbarth poems.
- Embarrassingly bad!
- A quick one before I go.
- New Xiu Xiu for those of you who do. I don't (though I hear why those who do do), but two loved ones do.
- New Shins for those of you who do. I almost positive it's their bridges that keep me from loving.
- One hour of gorgeous.
- Holyfuck, thank you! Dangerous Minds, I don't think I've ever of these two Queen vids before:
Conformity caught here, nobody catches it, Lawns groomed in prose, with hardly a stutter. Lloyd hits the ball, and Lorraine fetches it. Mom hangs the laundry, Fred, Jr., watches it, Shirts in the clichéd air, all aflutter. Conformity caught here, nobody catches it. A dog drops a bone, another dog snatches it. I dreamed of this life once, Now I shudder As Lloyd hits the ball and Lorraine fetches it. A doldrum of leaky roofs, a roofer who patches it, Lloyd prowls the streets, still clutching his putter. Conformity caught here, nobody catches it. The tediumed rake, the retiree who matches it, The fall air gone dead with the pure drone of motors While Lloyd hits the ball, and Lorraine just fetches it. The door is ajar, then somebody latches it. Through the hissing of barbecues poets mutter Of conformity caught here, where nobody catches it. Lloyd hits the ball. And damned Lorraine fetches it.