Author's bio: I am a retired Oncology Data Coordinator, live with my husband of 48 years, have 3 children and 4 grandchildren, who are the pride and joy of my life. I live in Thomasville, GA, USA...I am a contributor to Daily, the Canadian Presbyterian devotional site, to Fellowship of Christian Poets, Crossways, Daily Wisdom, Gramps ChristianVoices, The Love of Christ, and Christian Poetry.
Thomas’s mother was a white Persian cat brought home by my daughter when she was in college. He was the first of her litter, black and white, and a throw back to his alley cat father. He had four sisters, with delicate, silky white hair.
He was different from the others. His alley cat blood gave him courage to attempt feats his pampered mother had never known. Thomas would climb the pecan tree, go out on the limb, look down at his mother as if to say “come on up.” Mother had been declawed as a house cat and could not climb. She ignored him. He captured our hearts. We kept Thomas and gave mother and the sisters away.
When courting age came, Thomas proved to be quite a lover. Sometimes it would be two months before he’d return from his escapades, lean and battle-scared. I always welcomed him back, treated his wounds, fed him and cared for him until he was healed.
On one occasion, six months passed and Thomas had not returned. “He’s dead,” we declared. “His nine lives have run out.” We got another cat to live in the back step territory that had once belonged to Thomas.
Nearly a year passed. One morning on the back edge of the yard was a pile of skin and bones, with the furry skin torn and bleeding, the back hip and leg was mangled, like a car had hit him. One ear was torn away. This was Thomas and he had dragged himself home on three legs. He looked up with sad and penitent eyes that said, “I’ve come home to die. Am I welcome here?” He did not attempt to penetrate the territory of the present cat. He knew he had forfeited his right to be first at feeding time; that he no longer deserved the love pats his predecessor was getting. He accepted his secondary role.
My heart went out to Thomas. He was really in bad shape. The bones in the hip and leg did not heal straight but just sort of swiveled up, leaving it sufficient for balancing but nothing more. The ear was filled with infection. I’d put medication on it, but the pain was so intense, he’d have spasms in the ear and scratch so hard, it would be bloodier than ever. He stayed covered with blood. He was a pile of bones covered with hair and skin. No flesh would adhere to his bones. The infection sapped all his energy I could stand his suffering no longer. I caught him and implored my husband to drive us to the veterinarian. Thomas was terrified. By the time we arrived, my hands and arms were bloody from his scratches.
We were ushered into an interior room at the Vets and Thomas was released. As the doctor treated my wounds he said, “I’ll have to sedate him before I can determine whether I can do anything for his wound.” We talked of options and quoted prices. He said he’d call me in an hour or more after sedating and examining the cat.
My husband called the Vet first. Put him to sleep permanently,” he said. “He’s not worth the price of surgery.”
When I called later, the doctor said, “we’ve got a slight problem. He told me what my husband had said. “I’d already done the surgery and I think it might be successful. However, he will not have an ear. I’ll make a deal with you. Pick up the cat and owe me nothing. If the cat lives and the operation is successful, you can pay me $25.00 at the end of thirty days.”
I agreed to the terms. When I picked Thomas up, the doctor gave me at least $25.00 worth of antibiotics to put in the ear to counteract the infection. He even gave me some vitamin drops to improve the appetite.
“This is my contribution to the welfare and preservation of animals,” he said. “Keep me posted on his condition.”
Poor Thomas was a pitiful sight. Now one-eared and a large area of fur missing, the swiveled up back leg hanging limply as he ambulated on the other three, he scarcely resembled a cat. Within thirty days, he was thriving. The ear surgery had healed, the fur was slowly growing back over the ear and he was gaining weight. Life was returning to the bag of bones. I wrote a check along with a thank you note to the veterinarian.
Thomas never liked my husband or any other male after that time. He seemed to know I’d saved his life. Our love affair began. His eyes bathed me with undying devotion as he bid me good-bye in the mornings and met me in the afternoons when I returned from work.
The bouts with infection had taken away Thomas’s masculinity. He no longer left home on courting trips. Anytime the back door opened or I drove up in the car, he was there to greet me. He liked to be loved by having me stroke his back with my foot. He’d lie there and purr, looking up at me with those worshipful eyes. Many times when I was in a hurry, I would try to bypass this ritual. He’d refuse to eat his food as if saying “I don’t want your gifts, I want your love.” He is not a house cat, but he likes to come in the kitchen while I cook, and lie at my feet. When satisfied that he is loved, he goes to the door and meows to be let out.
Thomas was an inspiration with his courage, his love and his determination. As he got older, especially in winter, the broken bones became stiff and he could barely move. Yet, if another cat or dog invaded his territory, he could fight, and run like lightning, and climb the pecan tree on his three good legs.
He never left home again. For years he stayed near the back steps, met my car when I drove up and accompanied me on every step I made in the yard.
Thomas finally died of old age—his tired and crippled body just deteriorated. For a while, He would meow and act agitated when I left him. One day, he did not make an appearance. We found him a few days later, under the air conditioner. He had peacefully passed on.
I’ve missed him very much. He was my friend. The only fault I ever found with Thomas, HE ALWAYS HAD TO BE FIRST, walking directly in front of me, whenever we walked together.
© Ivie Bozeman
