So, I’d been mulling over getting a Maine Coon for what felt like ages. You see these pictures online, these massive, majestic cats, and you just think, “Yeah, I need one of those in my life.” I started asking around, reading forums, the usual stuff. And this one name kept popping up – this supposedly “legendary” Maine Coon cattery. People spoke about it in hushed tones, like it was some kind of feline Shangri-La.
My first step, obviously, was to try and find them. And let me tell you, it wasn’t like they had a flashy website or were all over social media. Nosiree. This was old school. I felt like I was hunting for a secret society. Eventually, I got a contact, an email address that looked like it was created in 1998. Sent off a polite inquiry, trying not to sound too desperate. The reply took a week. A whole week! I nearly forgot I’d sent it.
The Waiting Game Begins
After that initial back-and-forth, which was all very formal and to the point, I managed to get on their waiting list. They didn’t make any grand promises. It was more like, “We’ll let you know when we have something that might suit you.” Real specific, right? So, I waited. And waited. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. I’d send a follow-up email every now and then, just a gentle nudge, and get a brief, courteous reply. “We have your information.” Thanks, super helpful.
Now, here’s a funny thing. Around this time, my job was absolutely insane. I mean, total chaos. Deadlines piling up, clients screaming, late nights, the whole nine yards. I was stressed out of my mind, constantly checking my work emails, living on coffee. And then there was this cattery, operating on what I can only describe as “glacial cat time.” It was such a bizarre contrast. My life was frantic, and their communication style was so unhurried it was almost comical. For a while, it really got under my skin. I’d think, “Just send an update! How hard can it be?”
But then, something shifted. I started to, well, almost appreciate their pace. It was like this tiny, steady island of calm in my otherwise turbulent life. Knowing that, somewhere out there, these folks were just methodically doing their thing, raising kittens, unbothered by my personal brand of mayhem. It didn’t make my job any less crazy, but it did give me a weird sort of perspective. Patience, I guess. I was learning it the hard way, through kitten anticipation.
Finally, The Call (Well, Email)
One day, an email landed. “We have a litter. We think there might be one for you.” My heart did a little jump. They sent a couple of blurry photos. Nothing fancy. We arranged a time for me to visit. The cattery itself wasn’t some palace. It was a home, clearly lived-in, clearly dedicated to cats. The smell of clean litter and, well, cats, was everywhere. It felt genuine, not like some sterile showroom.
I met the kittens. Tiny little fluffballs, already showing that Maine Coon gravitas. The breeder watched me interact with them. It wasn’t just about me picking a kitten; it felt like they were interviewing me too. We talked for a long time. About their cats, their lines, what they expected from new owners. It was thorough, to say the least. I finally chose my little guy – or maybe he chose me, who knows with cats.
The process of actually getting him ready to come home took a few more weeks. Vet checks, vaccinations, the works. They were very particular about everything. No shortcuts. When I finally brought him home, he was this confident, surprisingly well-adjusted little creature.
So, Was It “Legendary”?
Looking back, the whole experience was… an experience. The “legendary” part? I think it’s less about some magical quality and more about their dedication and the sheer effort involved. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t quick. It required a ton of patience on my part. The cat I got is amazing, a fantastic companion, healthy, and with a great temperament. Is he more “legendary” than any other well-bred Maine Coon? Hard to say.
But the journey to get him, that was something else. It taught me a few things, mostly about slowing down and trusting a process, even when it’s infuriatingly opaque. The cattery wasn’t perfect, their communication could have driven a saint to drink, but they delivered. They cared about their animals, deeply. And in the end, that’s what mattered. Would I go through it all again? Honestly, yeah, I probably would. The cat’s pretty great, after all. And I have a good story to tell, right?
