Two months ago, we responded to a call from Reedley about a grungy gray and white long-hair that showed up on the finder’s porch, limping badly and looking for help. After agreeing to take on the spot (“That smell will kill him”), we hustled him off for treatment—no breaks but infection, necrosis, atrophy—and kept our fingers crossed that the leg would heal to the point that Storm as he was now known could use it.
After a month or so, the crew moved Storm up a weight class and brushed him free of mats, but it became clear his leg was as useless as your ex and we made the decision to amputate. Storm moves better on three legs than you and I do on two, so surgery for him was nothing more than a forced nap, and a day later he was back to cleaning his bowl and charming extra brush time from the crew.
We kept the finder posted on Storm’s progress, and when we suggested this now handsome tripod could use a safe spot with a comfy bed, the finder said her girls were home for the summer and would be thrilled to welcome him back. I dropped him off earlier today, and the finder couldn’t believe the turnaround (“OMG…he looks SO good!”) and just shot me a text that he’s “already on the couch purring and getting loved.” Storm.