My old college buddy Horton Smith had an odd way of speaking.
He liked to abbreviate and misuse words. Once we saw a magnificent St. Bernard ambling along with a street with its owner: “Average ’nard,” Horton said.
His sense of humor knew no limits.
On our way to Overland Park, where he lived, one evening a Highway Patrol trooper took exception to how fast Horton was driving. The scream of a siren and flashing lights brought us to a stop. The officer walked up, looked in the driver’s side window and before he could ask for a driver’s license, Horton piped up: “Two burgers, fries and a Coke.” The officer smiled … and wrote out a ticket.
If Horton were at our place on the east outskirts of Humboldt, he likely would describe our tomcat as an “average ’line,” as in feline.
Tom is a mighty fine cat to my way of thinking.
He showed up months ago while we still had two young females. Luna, as I reported in this column some time ago, went to that big litter box in the sky after finding the engine compartment of my ’91 Ranger a good place for a snooze. She then jumped from hiding into the path of a rear tire. Butterscotch, so named because of her color, up and left one day. I suspect she hooked up with an unkempt long-haired male that had been hanging around and joined a commune on the seedy side of Humboldt.
Tom’s another story.
He comes and goes, but lately he has been hanging around more than usual. He’s snow white with a few black splotches and friendly as a hobo looking for a handout. One afternoon this week, with the weather so warm, I plopped down in a chair on our back porch to soak up some sun. Tom leaped into my lap, purring all the while, and then carefully climbed onto my shoulder and perched for a spell.
Wednesday we had pork chops for dinner. I put leftovers on the porch. Tom ignored a dollop of cat food — why wouldn’t he with succulent pork available — and set to devouring the meat. He even licked the paper plate clean.
Here’s the topper.
A couple of hours later I flipped on the light, planning to let Angus (our Schnauzer) out for rest and relaxation and whatever else nature demanded, and noticed something lying near the plate. A small field rat, not a big sewer rat, had been on the losing side of an encounter with Tom. When I mentioned its presence, wife Beverly climbed up the back of couch, making strange, gurgling sounds that I finally figured out: “Get rid of that thing!”
I fetched a bundle fork (one with three tines) from the garage to pick up the rat, which Tom had begun to further gorge himself on, and sent it flying over the back fence.
There’s never a dull moment around the Johnson homestead.
At Week’s End: Tom finds a tasty meal nearby
