Frodo was 9 weeks old when he came to live with me on September 27, 1997 in my junior 1 bedroom apartment (i.e. studio apartment) in Tucson. My friend Trish had driven me to pick him up from the humane society, and drove us home. Now I was alone with him.
He had been neutered earlier that day, and the humane society instructions told me not to let him run around. But that’s exactly what he did, sniffing at everything, checking the place out. When I could, I picked him up and put him in the litter box, hoping he’d know where to go.
He had the biggest eyes, ears, and paws, and was the wildest thing I’d ever seen.
The instructions said not to let him jump, so I decided I would sleep on the floor with him. By this time he was crying. I held him and he calmed right down. I settled on the floor, but that hurt my back, so I decided to pick him up and settle him in bed with me (bypassing the instructions). We fell asleep about 10 pm, Frodo resting on my chest, listening to my heartbeat.
Four hours later, I was awakened by meows–Frodo was up and wanted to jump off. He was too little to navigate the bed, so I settled him on the floor. More running around. It was 2 am. Luckily I wasn’t working at the time, so I could set my own hours.
I took Frodo to our complimentary vet visit later that day, and the vet said it was OK to let him run around if he wanted to. Good thing. He measured in at about 6 inches long and 2.1 pounds, which the vet said was normal.