Muffin

Muffin is a stupid little bastard boy with nothing in between his ears but chaos. He is dearly beloved and I will raze towns to the ground for his entertainment.

Like Sandy, he's a rescue cat from North Kerry. We suspect they're cousins: their family tree more closely resembles a hedge. He was rescued along with his brother Nova, who happily subjugated Muffin during their weeks together.

Until 8 weeks old he stayed with my friends who rescued him, fawned over by 2-3 dogs, attacked on the regular by 2 cats, and ignored by the other cat. A well-balanced upbringing to ensure that he'd want to burn everything to the ground in the future.

To give him credit, he was an incredibly fun kitty who was full of beans 100% of the time, as he should be. Permanently wide-eyed and attacked everything on sight. Especially feet.

Sandy never took to him as well as Chili though. The lack of playfighting really was telling. Even now, he's never really bonded with him particularly well. They do hang out and look after each other a bit though which is nice.

One of his best qualities is his responsiveness. He will adapt to everything you say and do, and he's super clear on what he's feeling (hint: there's two brain cells and only one isn't thinking about food). His tail is basically a mobile exclamation mark.

Around 6 months old, the energy wasn't abating in the slightest. At this point we realised we had a problem on our hands. Muffin was a 24/7 terminator, eternally aiming to kill flies, toes, bits of dust in the air, his own tail, any type of reflection, swaying grass, still shadows, dry food, sparks that came out of the fireplace...

This all came to a head when he was around 9 months old. He was at his holiday home (ie. my parents') in Kerry for a weekend. We're all chilling in the sitting room, when he comes thundering in using only three legs. He put absolutely no weight on it, and would launch away from us if we approached. The last time this happened, a kitty x-ray revealed it was only a sprain, but this time it looked far worse.

A week later, the vet had confirmed that Stupid Bastard Idiot Boy had broken his tibia in three places. Most likely from jumping from too high a height, a sin he had committed before and learned nothing from.

After a few days in the vets and a small fee of ONE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED EURO YOU FLUFFY DIPSHIT, Muffin returned to us with an array of splints on his leg, much less fur than before, and a shame cone he refused to wear for more than two seconds. The vet condemned him to four weeks in a cage, with a further two weeks indoors, before he could go outside again. Hell ensued.

Muffin may have returned to the outdoors a little sooner than 6 weeks. I may have murdered him otherwise.

After his recovery, he's become even more of a demon tyrant. He has found and executed a local resistance band of mice/voles, and has since turned his attention to the murder of fat birds. The line had been overstepped when he caught and released a garden bird into the house, then proceeded to de-feather the poor bastard. He's more of an indoor boy now.

Muffin had his first birthday very recently. I have no idea how many more he'll live at this rate, but he finds a way of thriving even when everyone is desperate to stop him. Frankly it makes him worse :3