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Max is my daughter's cat. She left him behind when she moved out of state. He's a black Manx, named Max (how imaginative!) by the person who took care of him before he adopted my daughter.

She named him Beemer, because he is a constant complainer: Bitch Moan and Whine. We switched to calling him Max, but it really doesn't matter, because he is so busy complaining he never hears you call his name anyway.

Max is pushing 20 now, a true senior citizen. He's not very bright. I often think that if he had been a street cat, he would never have survived this long. He stands out in the rain, soaking wet, complaining about the weather, when he has a nice, big, dry garage to shelter him with food, water, and a comfy cat nest.

He's also a coward. He backs away from mice and runs away from birds at the least flutter of feathers. He would starve to death, were it not for his food bowl filled by yours truly. He complains constantly about the food; he wants company while he eats. To protect him, maybe?

When we got the kittens (now senior citizens themselves) at 8 weeks old, he let them bully him (he weighs about 15 pounds) and he is still quick to run off when one of them appears, even though they are half his size.

Time for me to go shoo him back into the garage. It's raining Manxs and dogs.

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