Tom Cat

In order to fully appreciate this story, you must have some background information. I am gullible, particularly when it comes to my older brother, Rick. I have always believed whatever he told me. This is also probably the time that I should tell you that he has a little mischief in him, too.

Another thing you have to know is that I don’t like cats and, therefore, I don’t know much about them. When I was a little girl, Mom told me I couldn’t have a cat because it would give me diphtheria. I didn’t know what diphtheria was, but I knew I didn’t want it.

Only one time was I ever around a cat as a child. My grandmother, in a weak moment, took in a Siamese cat named Sam. He was the meanest cat I have ever been around. He would lie in wait for me to walk through her living room and he would spring from the back of her blue rocker onto my back and hang there while I frantically tried to get him off. Not only did he scare me to death, but his claws also hurt when they dug into my skin. After much soul-searching, Grandmother gave the cat to a mean little neighbor boy and Sam was even too despicable for him. Right then and there, I began to loathe cats, especially little baby ones (but that’s another story).

You must also know that Rick and I rode the bus home from school every afternoon. We would get home at least a couple of hours before the rest of the family.

During those hours, we would have homework and a few chores to do, but then we could go outside and have fun. On this specific day, I caught my bay horse, Buck, and saddled him up. Rick went to the barn to groom Axtell, his show heifer.

As I began my afternoon ride, I spotted a big, brown fuzzy cat that didn’t have a tail. Because I was curious about cats, I immediately called it to Rick’s attention.

I asked him, “Hey, Rick, what kind of cat is that anyway?”

He replied that it was a barn cat. Usually those kinds of answers would shut me up and then he could go on about his business, but not this time. I wanted to know why that cat didn’t have a tail.

Rick said, “Well, he’s a cross between a Tom cat and a bobcat and the bobcat is the daddy. That’s why he has a short tail.”

“Hmmm. Okay. He looks funny, though.” I said.

That pretty much ended our exchange about the brown, fuzzy cat with no tail for that day.

The next day at school, I ate lunch next to Mrs. Willis, my fifth grade teacher. Of course, that was the preferential seat. Since she had taught Rick when he was in fifth grade, I thought I’d amuse her with my brown, fuzzy short-tail barn cat story. I retold it exactly as it occurred.

She smiled and sweetly asked, “Who told you that?”

I replied, “My brother, Rick.”

“I see,” she said. “I understand.”

That was the end of our conversation concerning the cat story.

That night at the supper table, I proudly told Mom and Dad the tale about the barn cat. They shot looks across the table to one another. At first they just snickered, but before long they began laughing profusely. I’d been snookered again.

They quickly explained what a Tom cat was and how it couldn’t be the barn cat’s mother. I was so embarrassed. I had told my teacher that story with a straight face.

Rick slapped his leg and laughed uncontrollably. One would have thought that I would never believe anything else he ever told me, but that was not the case. To this day, I have to look him right in the eye to detect any little gleam to see if he is telling me the truth or not. I just don’t repeat them anymore until I check them out.