Not

Black cat on the couch
Stretched out long, so different
Not Moby. Himself.

Zeppo is his own cat, and only the color of fur is the same. The fur is different, sleek satin instead of a double coated velvet. Long thin tail, rather than a thick short appendage. A slim triangular head instead of an elegant rhomboid. A rounded center instead of a stocky musculature. It has been a month. He finds his own place here, and we stand back to watch and adore.

I woke thinking of his time in a small cage, however kindly meant, still a jail. He needs time to exercise and become nourished, to find his own proper shape. He hesitates jumping up to the tree, lacking a youthful bounce. He needs time, patience, trust. I know about needing time to trust. Eleanor seems to as well. As he rubs up against her, his tail in her face, she does the feline version of rolling her eyes, but tolerates. She bops him gently when he's being annoying. But it's not mean, not personal, just correction.

Eleanor sat on my chest this morning, as Zeppo hopped up, purring madly, wanting attention too. She settled in, I put out a hand to him, half asleep, pressed him down to allow Eleanor her time. Cat-alarm clock. Not to be relied upon, but effective.

Eleanor plays more, now. Finds ping pong balls, they bat it between them, not a scorable game, but a game. There is an ease between them that delights us. They share their space well. I hope, once it gets cold, we will find them cuddled together.

These things cannot be rushed.