Testimonials
What People Say About Us!
After my divorce, I spent months in a fog of loneliness. I’d always been a ‘dog person,’ but when a friend suggested I visit Patricia’s Maine Coon Home, something compelled me to go. The moment Atlas climbed onto my lap and pressed his giant paws against my chest, I burst into tears. It was like he knew. Patricia handed me a tissue and said softly, ‘They have a way of finding broken hearts.’ Three years later, Atlas still sleeps curled against my back every night. He follows me from room to room, chirping if I sigh too heavily. He didn’t just become my cat—he became my reason to smile again. Patricia doesn’t just breed cats; she matches souls.
Steve West
When our son was diagnosed with autism, we were overwhelmed. Therapies, meltdowns, sleepless nights—we were drowning. Then we brought home Juno from Patricia’s. From Day 1, Juno seemed to understand. She’d gently headbutt our son’s hands when he stimmed too hard, distracting him from panic attacks. She sleeps in his bed every night, her rumbling purr calming his anxiety. One night, I found him whispering secrets into her fur—something he’d never done with us. Patricia told us Maine Coons have a gift for empathy, but we never imagined this. Juno isn’t a pet; she’s family. She’s his guardian angel in fluff
Danny Malves
I lost my husband of 42 years last winter. The silence in our home was suffocating. My daughter begged me to ‘just visit’ Patricia’s kittens. I resisted—how could a cat replace him? Then this smoky-gray kitten waddled up, climbed onto my shoulder, and nuzzled my ear… just like my late husband used to. I sobbed into her fur. Patricia squeezed my hand and said, ‘Freya picked you. Let her help.’ Now, Freya sits in his old armchair every evening, watching the sunset with me. She brings me hair ties when I cry (her version of tissues). She didn’t replace my love; she taught me how to carry it forward.
Stan Palisky
After the miscarriage, my wife and I barely spoke. The nursery door stayed shut. Then we met Odin at Patricia’s—a clumsy, giant-pawed kitten who tripped over his own tail. We laughed for the first time in months. Patricia warned us, ‘Maine Coons steal space… and hearts.’ She was right. Odin bulldozed into our grief like a furry tornado, demanding playtime, knocking over the nursery’s unused crib mobile. Slowly, he glued us back together. Now, he ‘supervises’ us building Lego towers (his nemesis) and brings my wife ‘gifts’ of crumpled paper when she’s sad. Patricia gave us more than a cat; she gave us back us.
Diana Morz
As a veteran with PTSD, nights were the hardest. Then I met Thor at Patricia’s. She’d trained him as an ESA, but it was his intuition that stunned me. The first time I had a nightmare, he headbutted me awake, then draped his full 20-pound body across my chest like a weighted blanket. Now, he ‘patrols’ our apartment before bed, then stations himself at my feet. If my breathing changes, he’s there—licking my hand or yowling until I focus on him. Patricia didn’t just raise a cat; she raised a lifeline. At my VA group, they call him ‘Sarge’—because he fights my battles when I can’t.
Jack Lazario
When my 8-year-old stopped speaking after her best friend moved away, the child therapist suggested a pet. I was skeptical—until we met Luna at Patricia’s. The moment Luna flopped onto her back, paws in the air, my daughter giggled. That night, I eavesdropped as she ‘read’ Luna a story in a whisper. Now, Luna follows her to school (waiting by the door), ‘helps’ with homework by sitting on the pencil, and licks her tears away. Patricia said, ‘Maine Coons choose their humans.’ Luna chose her. After a year of silence, my girl sings to her cat every night. That’s not training; that’s magic.
Morgan Kate
I never liked cats. Thought they were aloof. Then my wife dragged me to Patricia’s. This massive orange kitten marched up, stared me down, and barked (yes, barked). Patricia laughed: ‘He thinks he’s a dog. You’ll do.’ For weeks, I resisted bonding… until I got food poisoning. Leo refused to leave my side. He brought me socks (his version of medicine), patted my face with his paw, and slept on my feverish chest. When I finally got up, he trilled like he’d saved my life. Maybe he did. Now, he ‘helps’ me grill by sitting regally on the patio table, judging my technique. Joke’s on me—I’m a cat guy now.
Mandy Clinton
After fostering 37 kids, my wife and I were exhausted. Our caseworker suggested an emotional support animal. Enter Stella from Patricia’s. This cat has a sixth sense for hurting hearts. She curls around new foster babies like a living teddy bear, lets toddlers drag her around (with saintly patience), and headbutts teens until they smile. One traumatized 6-year-old spoke his first words to her: ‘Hi, kitty.’ Patricia breeds cats, but Stella? She’s a therapist in a tail.
Jeremy Milton
Designer
For months, I suffered dizzy spells. Doctors called it stress. But Orion, my Maine Coon from Patricia’s, would NOT leave my left side—pawing at my leg and yowling at odd hours. One night, he knocked over my water glass and stood between me and the bathroom, blocking me. To humor him, I went to the ER. Turns out, I had a blood clot. The doctor said, ‘If it had traveled, you wouldn’t be here.’ Patricia later told me Maine Coons have an uncanny sense for illness. Orion sleeps with his ear pressed to my chest now, my furry guardian angel.
Joe Wentword
After the school bullying, my 10-year-old refused to leave his room. The therapist suggested a pet. At Patricia’s, a lanky kitten named Nala took one look at him, climbed up his hoodie, and perched on his shoulder like a parrot. For weeks, Nala was his silent shadow—sleeping in his backpack, ‘protecting’ him during showers (perched on the sink), even batting his tears away. Then one day, I heard him laugh as she chased her tail. Now, he whispers to her about his day. Patricia warned us, ‘They heal on their own schedule.’ Nala healed him just in time.
Holten Marlo
When Mom was dying, she made me promise to ‘find joy’ after. At her funeral, my aunt handed me an envelope—a reservation for a kitten at Patricia’s. ‘Your mom arranged it,’ she said. I sobbed through the whole visit… until this fluffy cream kitten headbutted my chin and purred into my collarbone. ‘That’s Duchess,’ Patricia smiled. ‘She’s been waiting for you.’ Now, Duchess sleeps on Mom’s favorite quilt every night. She steals my hair ties and drops them in Mom’s old teacup—like little offerings. Patricia didn’t just give me a cat; she gave me back a piece of her.
Mary Stone
We rescued a scarred Maine Coon mix from a hoarder. The vet said, ‘Don’t expect affection.’ But Patricia worked miracles. For months, Ghost hid under our bed—until the night my husband had a seizure. Ghost bolted to him, yowling and licking his face until he woke. Now, he ‘patrols’ the house at 3 AM (his ‘warrior hours’), brings us ‘kills’ (socks), and sleeps draped across my husband’s legs like a living weighted blanket. Patricia taught us: ‘Trauma doesn’t define them. Love does.’ Ghost isn’t a project; he’s our hero.
Mia Lopez
Dad swore he ‘hated cats.’ Then we brought home Magnus. Within days, this 22-pound fluffball had Dad wrapped around his paw—‘supervising’ his crossword puzzles, riding on his walker, even stealing his pork chops. When Dad’s dementia worsened, Magnus would guide him back to bed if he wandered at night. The day Dad passed, Magnus howled at his empty chair… then brought him a ‘gift’ (his favorite tie) and curled up on his slippers. Patricia says Maine Coons mourn like humans. Now, Magnus sleeps with Dad’s photo under his paw. Some bonds outlast lifetimes.
Harry Marley
My 5-year-old hadn’t spoken since the car accident. Speech therapy failed. Then we met Poe at Patricia’s—a jet-black Maine Coon with one white paw. On the drive home, Poe climbed into my son’s car seat and licked his cheek. And then—a whisper: ‘Hi, Poe.’ I nearly crashed the car. Now, Poe ‘helps’ him talk by headbutting his mouth when he hesitates. At his last therapy session, my son said, ‘Poe’s my best friend.’ Patricia’s eyes filled with tears when I told her. ‘They’re not just cats,’ she said. ‘They’re bridges back to ourselves.
Jennifer Miller
I got Freyja the same week I started chemo. Patricia warned me, ‘She’s a fighter—like you.’ Through the nausea, Freyja was my reason to get up—bringing me hair ties (her version of medicine), patting my IV line, even hissing at the thermometer. When I shaved my head, she licked my scalp like, ‘I still know you.’ On my worst night, she dragged her favorite toy (a ratty unicorn) onto my chest—her ultimate sacrifice. Today, my scans are clear, and Freyja sunbathes on my wig. Patricia didn’t just sell me a cat; she gave me a battle buddy.
Ciana Britton