Stony (no relation to his friend here) showed up on the property on one of those 40-below northern Alberta nights in the winter of 1976-77, suffering from a bad case of frostbite. He had to have his ears, paws, and tail amputated. My friend who rescued him named him after the nearby town of Stony Plain. Others less charitably called him Hockey Puck.
I took care of Stony for a while. Despite his fierce yellow eyes, he was totally mellow, and all he really cared about was sitting in the sun with good company. As the weather got colder, I gave him a box to live in (he was incontinent and wasn't allowed in the cabin) along with one of Grandma's old patchwork quilts.
One night as I was out walking I heard a dreadful caterwauling down in a hollow near the houses. In the beam of the flashlight I could see Stony locked in mortal combat with a huge Siamese tom that had been hanging around the place. Of course, he had nothing but his fangs and stumps to fight with. I drove off the intruder, and Stony lay in my arms panting as I carried him home.
Stony was a survivor. Eventually he retired to California.