My family used to be involved with quite a few rescues and the local shelter - we'd foster just about anything, a holdover from many years ago when the neighbors would bring us litters of orphaned kittens to raise and we owned all sorts of various pets. We've not done it in a while now due to various health issues, but we're still in contact with some of the rescue people who occasionally ask if we'd like to see such and such animal.
The most recent one we were asked that for: a Maine Coon.
Perhaps nine years old and terribly stunted in growth, owned along with thirty-odd other cats by a hoarder, not a one spayed or neutered. Repeatedly pregnant in her sad life, just having given birth to a litter of kittens only a few weeks ago. Four pounds, not likely to survive nursing those poor little bubs, and with a respiratory infection to boot.
She, minus kittens who sadly passed, found her way to a local rescue who asked if we'd like to foster her. Of course, said we - how can we say no to this miserable little scrap of fur, the poor wee thing.
She stepped out of the carrier when she arrived, squeaked and sneezed at me, and I knew at first sight I had to keep this tenacious fluffball.
Now Freya is a sassy, demanding, nine and a half pound mass of floof and attitude. She demands table scraps along with the dogs, loves a good belly rub, is fond of holding and licking my hand, takes up all the room on my computer table and loves to sit in the window. It's as if she's lived here for twenty years instead of two - and that's just how we like it.