October 7, 2016 - If you want the best seat in the house, you have to move the cat.

          I own a cat, no – the cat owns me. This story is about our first cat.

When I first moved to Forest City, we were putting down roots.   I was planting a garden, decorating the house and as things slowed down – a stray cat came to my back door.   He was a wee thing, black and white and had that sort of Felix the cat look – so I went with the name, Alex – first name that popped into my head.

I feed him for a couple of days and he wanted to stay.  That was okay with my husband.  But, all of a suddenly he wasn’t well.  I took him to the vet and she kindly said, “He is not going to make it – these strays eat anything in order to survive and I believe he has a blockage . . . .”  That was the end of little Alex, a brief, sweet moment in my life which ended bitter.

My new friend, my couch hunting friend, realized how sad I was.

Summer was turning into fall and I would be in the house more and our neighborhood was really one of those two-adults-working neighborhoods – so I would be alone most of the day.  I thought a cat would keep me company.

I mentioned my loss and she said, “Do you want a cat? Come, I’ll get you a cat.”

She drove me to the animal shelter and we walked to a box that had just arrived which had a momma cat with her kittens.   My friend put her hand in the box and tapped the side of the box.  The mother cat was looking on keenly aware of her presence.  The momma cat was serene, and stately, and smooth haired. She had the countenance of a Siamese cat, but her kittens were all colors.

I wanted a yellow cat . . . my own Morris . . . and didn’t have a chance to spell out my wishes to my friend . . .

My friend cooed, “Meow . . .  meow,” and tapped her hand inside the box. The first kitten that came to investigate – she picked up and announced gaily, “Here’s you a cat!”   Momma cat didn’t seem to be upset.

It was a yellow kitten whose ears weren’t up yet they were still just about flat against its head.   I took it home cradled in my hands.  It was about the size of a teacup.   I felt certain it was not old enough to be taken away from its Momma.

I named him Maurice – similar to Morris and he was very tiny.  Of course the first day, he got under my husband’s feet and I thought he had just about squashed him dead – but the cat angels were with us and he was just fine. 

Couple weeks later, we were dressing to go out to a Halloween party and the incident occurred.   Maurice was investigating things and he got his head stuck under the kitchen cabinet where the cabinets join down near the floor above the baseboards.  He meowed incessantly.   I became hysterical.  However, with little ado, my husband said, “He got his head in there, it will come out.”  My husband gave the kitten a half turn twist and pulled him out.  Maurice was okay again.

At the party my husband jazzed up the stuck kitten story more outlandish than it was and everyone laughed at my hysterical expense.  

A few days later the host of that party, Doug, dropped in for a potluck supper so that he and my husband could talk business.  Doug also wanted to see the kitty with only 7 lives left now.  Maurice had not yet learned his name and he didn’t come to my calling him Maurice.  Doug called him “Tom Cat” and kitty went to him instantly.  Doug and my husband played with the kitty and they got Maurice’s name down to T. C. for Tom Cat.  “Maurice” may have been the name at the vets, but, he came to “T.C.”, and then it got to “Teed-Mc-seed” in a sing song way when my husband called out the back patio door.

On the kitty’s last kitten checkup, the vet asked the kitty – not me, “Are you a satisfactory kitty?”  

T. C. answered, “Meow.” 

He was a satisfactory kitty and turned into a delightful cat for us.  He was my constant companion those first years and he was a mischievous devil. 

One thing he did often as a kitten, he would jump onto the little antique school desk next to the sliding glass window in the kitchen – less than a yard away from where I was washing dishes.  That desk usually held a potted plant.  

T.C. would dig a paw full of dirt out of the pot and then splay it out onto the light colored floor below and admire his handy work.  I would pause – my hands in the hot soapy water and tell him “NO.”  He would look at me, at the floor and scoop out another paw full of dirt and splay it out onto floor.  “NO,” again I would call and this little game of his would proceed until I had to move from the sink towards him.  He would jump down to the splayed out soil on the floor to inspect his artwork and then zip away out of reach.   This was his favorite game.

We had T.C. for 18 wonderful years and he was a “Very Satisfactory Kitty.”