I have invited you to let me tell you about Tom, my amazing friend of the feline specie. Love for the feline specie comes from the story of Peter Rabbit and Mr. Mcgregor wherein the white tabby is grooming herself by a pool of water. Later I collected insects and rocks growing up to becoming a chemist with a major oil company and later a college chemistry instruc-tor. Moving to other cities, family, etc. I lost contact with that field. Among other things, I have performed as a singer, speaker, museum docent, book recorder, newspaper reader for the blind; worked to establish a lighting business and got a mas-ters degree in radio/tv production and performance. My latest work is writing popular fiction, novels. I will try to entertain with stories about Tom and what I've learned about cats.


This is for all of you who love cats, who live with one, or more,. It is also for those of you who value friendship and enjoy the company of others. I welcome you into my life, about my cat and me. It may be we have other like interests and special loves than cats and friendship, be-cause I like to share, at times, some special insights, or some degree of enlightenment that may spring upon me. So, please join me for a little part of your day.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

My last two posts failed to get published, so I begin again.  When I was six years old I received my first pet, a cat named Tom.  I had wanted a white cat like the one mentioned in the Peter Rabbit story, but my parents did the best they could and found a pale yellow adult x.  Cats were acquired when a mama cat had kittens, or a stray was found.  Tom was a stray who wandered into my dad's mill where he kept other cats to eliminate the mice.  And he fed them, as well.  At that time, males were not altered, and Tom behaved like a Tom cat. 

I will mention one or two of his adventures.  He loved salmon and always received the scraps in the can of red sockeye.  He didn't push his face into the can, but used his paw to pick up the scraps.  He learned to sit on the kitchen stool when in the house and avoid the wrath of my mother who didn't really approve of cats in the house.  It was there my dad taught this cat to lift up his right paw and shake hands like a gentleman. 
One time Tom did something that really upset my mother and she chase him out with a broom.  The next morning he turned up at the mill, about a mile from home.  It was just a small town.  From then on he would take up residence at our house or at the mill. 

As I said, he was a natural tomcat, and in season he would disappear for a couple of weeks and then return home.  He never failed to announce his return with low murrrr-ows in cadence as he marched up the driveway.  I remember one time he came back thin, scratched, a tooth hanging and was very happy to be fed and petted again.  He was very patient with this little girl who used to hang him around her neck to wear as a furpiece.  Speaking of fur, my mother had worn in her single days a fox neckpiece which had the fox's head on it.  Apparently she couldn't bear to throw it away, although she never wore it.  It remained in the hall closet until my parents moved to another town, and the house was sold.  I guess I used to push the fox fur at Tom, and there was enough fox still in it that he hissed
at it. 
Also in the closet was a small bed made by a neighbor as a Christmas present along with a little chest for my dolls.  My parents always made sure the cat was put out before bedtime, and I had to do it.
One night I looked inn all the rooms for Tom but didn't find him.  At last I looked in the closets, and there in the hall closet was Tom peacefully asleep inn the doll bed.  He looked up at me with such satisfaction I couldn't bear to take him out of the bed.  But my parents were authoritative.

Monday, June 16, 2014

Tom, No.1, story.

I promised you another story about my first "Tom". Yes, he was an unaltered male who disappeared from home at certain
times. I remember him coming home again in the spring season. He marched up the driveway in cadence with his demanding
voice, "Mm-row, mm-row, mm-row." He would be thin, and sometimes beat-up showing evidence of cat fights. Then half
starved he would be fed. In my family, pets were fed milk, bread, table scraps, and the left-over parts of cans of
red sockeye salmon. This was a favorite of Tom, No. 1. He would paw out from the can every cast scrap of that tasty
fish -- very patiently.

He also loved to hide in the hall closet at night when it was time to "put out the cat". In the closet was a small bed for my dolls, specially made by a neighbor who carved a complete set of a Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey circus parade
for his three children. Tom would go to sleep in this bed, and when I finally found him at night, he would look up at me
in the most trusting way. The most contented look would be on that cat's face, and I could hardly bear to put him out
for the night. The authority of my parents made me do it, anyway.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

I promised to tell you about my first "Tom". He was my first pet when I was six years old. My parents got me the nearest
color to a white cat I wanted with a light yellow young cat -- no kitten but not fully grown. He was a foundling. My father had recently bought a business which was a feed mill with machinery to grind and store grain. He also sold all
kinds of feeds to farmers. Not only 100# sacks of feed, but salt blocks for cattle and oyster shell for chickens. Yes,
this is what they need. With all that grain in the place you can imagine how that would attract the mice and rats. So he
always kept a couple of cats in residence there, and they tended to wander into the place. He also fed them additional
cans of horsemeat and canned milk from the milk condensery across the road.

So my parents presented Tom to me (duly named). Cats were not so big when I was little; nor were males altered. So he was
a wanderer. Very soon he knew he was useful at the mill, but was brought home to be the pet, otherwise. Then, he learned
he didn't have to wait to be brought home. He arrived on his own. When my mother shooed him out of the kitchen with a
broom, he showed up at the mill in disgust. But he soon returned home. My dad taught him to sit on the kitchen stool and
stay out of trouble. He also taught him to shake hands, and the cat would extend his right paw. He became very mannerly.

I'll tell you more next time. In the meantime, my current "Tom" continues to check on everything I do.