I found a photo of my Tom a few weeks ago.
He was a little scorched black and white stray kitten my brother found the day after Guy Fawkes. The vet said he was only about six weeks old. He grew up to be the meanest, deadliest, hugest, Tom cat you've ever seen.
He attacked next door's alsation and sent it running, he stole the next but one's chicken off the kitchen table (she was and is terrified of cats ) he fathered heaven knows how many wee black and white kittens, he sang in the Summer nights, he hunted rats down the burn, he chased the magpies and took on two seagulls and send them fleeing, and to the end of his days he loathed teenage boys. My brother said he was a fiend from hell disguised as something cute.
He was my big soft pet of a moggie though; he sat on my lap and purred, he snuggled in beside me in bed, he kept me company while I sewed, while I gardened, when I went for a walk….and twenty years later I still miss him. I buried him underneath the climbing roses along the high fence at the back of the garden where he used to lie soaking up the sunshine.
Isn't it funny how much we become attached to our pets ? Logic says that Tom was just another moggie, but he was my moggie, or maybe I was his human.