The people at the cat jail where we adopted him estimated his age at 3 years, but our vet pooh-poohed that and said he was much younger. Life with him has confirmed his diagnosis, he’s obviously just barely outgrown kittenhood and is in fact just a teenager. A boy teenager, and you know how dangerous they are. I expect any day to come home and find him all gothed out, sullen and listening to Death Metal.
He loves to play, catch the string, chase, feathers-on-a-wand, anything that involves interaction with me. When we met him in the lock-up he was terribly sweet, purring in our laps and rolling over on his back. Turns out that adorableness was an act, partly caused by the malnourishment he had been living with on the streets and partly to lure us into bringing him home. Of course, it worked. Now, after a month of very high priced fancy raw cat food, he has morphed into a miniature tiger.
I think he really is very sweet natured and once he grows out of this rambunctiousness (soon, please god) it will be more obvious. He sleeps with R Man and reports from there tell of snuggling up and purring at beddy bye time, but he looks at me as somebody to play with and I have to say, I like that too. He performs the most amazing acrobatics when chasing feathers on a string, midair somersaults and leaps like Nijinsky. Oh, so cute.