Tommy - My First Cat

On May 27th, 1945, (Yes, that was 77 years ago) my father came home with a kitten for me. Two days later, when I was brought home from the hospital, he put Tommy in my crib with me, whereupon he immediately (I was told) curled up right next to me and went to sleep.

They named him Tommy, and from that day on he was mine.

After that, there have been very few times in my life when I would be without a cat for very long.

Tommy was a dark brown tabby, a lot like the cover image, and at that time, at least in my area, people called them tiger cats. I didn’t learn the word tabby until many years later.

Tommy was an indoor-outdoor cat, and whenever my mother let him in she always found a present, usually a mouse, by the front door.

“Cats are connoisseurs of comfort.” — James Herriot

If he came in at night while I was sleeping, he would run right to the stairs, climb them very fast, jump up onto my bed, crawl under the covers next to me, and turn around until his head was out, and there he would sleep all night against me. If I woke up or was awake when he did that, I would put my arm around him and hold him, and I loved doing that. I have spent my whole life looking for another cat that would do that.

Recently I acquired a cat named Dean, and when he was a little kitten he did climb under the covers and put his head back out, but he only did that two or three times. Now he’ll put his head under the covers, climb under there, and stay. But I did finally get my Tommy feeling at least a few times.

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Tommy would let me do anything with him. I could play dress-up with him, drive him around in my stroller, anything, and he would just sit and take it.

I even remember being very small and carrying him around under his front legs while his hind legs dragged on the floor, and he never minded that. (Or if he did, he never said so.)

We had Tommy until I was about seven possibly close to eight, and then a neighbor came and told my mother she thought he had been hit by a car. My mother ran out to find him, while I cried at home, hoping it wasn’t him, but it was. My mother and I sat on the couch and cried, while she held me and comforted me.

The next Sunday when I went to Sunday school, the Sunday school teacher asked, as she usually did, if anyone had anything to pray for. I said I needed to pray for my cat, Tommy, who had gone to heaven.

She quite matter-of-factly told me that cats don’t go to heaven, and asked if there was anyone else that had something to pray for.

This was the start of my dissatisfaction with the church and religion, but it wouldn’t be the last.

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Because of Tommy, I have been a cat person my whole life. Except for very short periods of time, I have always had a cat, and more likely multiple cats.

I believe that I am alive today because of cats.

I always think of Tommy with affection and love, because he was the start of my lifelong obsession with, and love for, cats; they have brought me more love and happiness than I can ever be able to express.