First Tom

My first pet, when I was about five years old wandered into my Dad's feed mill, because he fed cats to keep the mice away from the grain in the mill.  Tom was a full-grown light yellow male Dad named, "Tom" and brought home for a pet.  I had wanted a white cat like the one in Peter Rabbit who sat grooming herself in the sun.  Tom was the next best cat.  He was an intelligent cat who showed he had a mind of his own. 


Dad always fed the mill cats on Sunday when the mill was closed, and I would go along to see the two cats.  All I had known before were country cats who never entered the house at my grandparents farm.  At age three, I had followed a kitten who ran under the front porch, and when I reached in to pull out the kit, it scratched me in the eye.  That required a trip to the country doctor.  I recovered and still wanted a pet cat.


Dad gave Tom a place in our kitchen.  He had to sit on the two-step kitchen stool while there.  My Dad even taught Tom to shake paws.  He would tell the cat to shake his hand, and touch Tom's paw.  Tom would raise it and he would shake the paw as if Tom were a young gentleman.  I would do the same and shake Tom's paw.  You'll say, "Yes, he raised his paw because it was touched."  Maybe so, and maybe not.  We believed, and Tom never failed. 


Tom also knew how to transport himself between our home and the mill.  One time my Mother
sent after him with the broom.  To show his disdain, he turned up at the mill overnight.  Then when he felt like it he would return home.


Tom was unaltered and had springtime departures to live apart chasing girls (as I was later to learn).
If I heard cats fighting in the night I would dash out of the house to rescue my dear feline from harm, knowing nothing of the nature of animal life.  In due course Tom would come home announcing his
return in a cadence matching his marching feet of loud m'rows.  He also bore his battle wounds.


Another time I'll tell you about his battle with a crawdad.