Tom's Routine

I posted a blog in July which I don't see here, so I will do it again -- more brief this time.  I have
mentioned before that Tom is big on routine.  When I first get up in the morning he is either at the door or hears the click of the lock and is there in the swish of a tail.  Before he goes for his breakfast he heads for the door from the utility room into the garage where I touch a switch to turn off the yard
light.  It was on a timer for many years, but the timer finally wore out.  But the on-off switch is
there and works well.  So Tom butts his head against the door to go with me to the switch, running
ahead, and after the "off" produces a soft sound he runs back inside.  I pour out the kibble and he
is already up on the dryer to chomp it down.  Why not on the floor?  The ants do not climb up on the dryer.  Yes, I spray for ants, but the food draws out their descendants.  The bugs got in when the
house was being built in the fall season, and some of them continued to live on through their generations.

Tom's Internal Computer

Right now, Tom is lying on his back up against the wall in my office, his hind legs up and his paws curled.  He is white furred all the way to his legs.  I think I have mentioned before that he is very big on routine, and somehow he always knows where I am -- at least in the house.  Example:  When he first come in in the morning, he goes directly through the kitchen, utility room to the garage door which he puts down his head to butt his way through.  Then he goes just ahead of me to the front
to the switch for the yard light.  It was on a timer, but the timer wore out, and I turn it on with
the switch which does work.  After, he turns and walks, or runs, back to the door and leaps up
on the dryer to eat his breakfast.  I put his dish up to prevent ants from swarming to cat food.  Yes,
I spray for insects, but they got into the ducts when the house was being built, and their descendants
have been there ever since.


In the mornings when I get up he does not appear at the glass door.  Somehow, though, by the
time I have sipped water in the kitchen and go back to the door, there he is with his morning
greeting ready to being his day.  The thing is, I am very quiet, even in turning on the water.  How
does he know I'm up?  Does he hear the water outside the house from the water lines, or is
he psychic?  I think he has a video on his internal computer mind.

Tom's games

Tom is a psychological game player.  What makes a cat want to make up a means of having his way
over the authority of his owner?  It's like a child who has been cooperative with his parent suddenly
becoming aware that it's time to exert himself to see what he can get away with.


Tom, having formerly sat by the door when the daylight began to wane ready to go outside for the night, began to disappear.  When I discovered his hiding place, he would flee and end up under
my bed where I could not reach him.  At first, I waited until having retired myself, he jumped onto
the bed to get my attention.  Then I picked him up, scrambled out of bed with him struggling all the way to the door.  Too relaxed he got out of my arms, but I caught him by one leg and then the other
while I was trying to get the locked door open.  He won.  I ended up with a scratched hand which  really hurt.  Keeping me awake I found him again.  Again we fought, and I lost.  Getting up the third time, because I couldn't get to sleep, I saw him sitting by the door, opened it, and he went out.


After that, I thought twice (a little slow, I thought to myself) and closed off the doors to the bedroom.
Then he hid under a side table in the living room, in sight, but when He saw me looking around the corner he retreated behind the sofa where I couldn't reach him.  I had to move the sofa to get him, but was able to pick him up before he could run off, and summarily put him out. 


After that, all over again, he has retired out of my sight, but where I could see him, having cut off
his routes of escape.  Also, I have approached him with petting and soft words.  Also, I have put both arms under his forelegs and hindlegs in which they extend like a carpenter's sawhorse.  Then, I have
been putting him down at the door while I open it, and he has been going out like a good little boy.


You could say we know each other a little better.

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.

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.

wr5hrhtn

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.