Bob McClure
Remembering a neighborhood legend
By BOB MCCLURE
| Article published on Tuesday, Oct. 20, 2009 |
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I think if I was going to open a business here in Pinellas, it would be something related to pets.
It seems almost everyone has a pet, be it a dog, cat or maybe an energetic gerbil.
However, I’m not one of them.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love animals but at this point in my life they’re kind of like grandchildren. They’re nice to play with as long as they belong to someone else.
Over the years I’ve been the proud owner of a few dogs and cats, as well as some goldfish, a few swordtails and some black mollies.
I’ve never understood why people would ever want to own a python, or any snake for that matter. But I guess they have their reasons.
For me, the whole process of owning a pet started when I was 6 and my sister brought home a white kitten that she got from her fourth-grade teacher.
Snowball was a great name but it was quickly changed appropriately to Tom when my dad discovered this small creature was actually a he.
Since Tom was an albino cat, he was deaf. He also had a crooked tail from falling out of a tree as a little guy and landing on his butt.
Tom was tough. It was clear from the start that he wasn’t going to be your typical neighborhood cat. Tom liked to fight and was often gone for a couple of weeks on one of his famous walkabouts during mating season.
Tom, in essence, was both the neighborhood stud and a street fighter. He was like Genghis Khan. If he wanted it, he took it.
One night, about 3 a.m., I recall the phone ringing with one of our neighbors complaining about Tom making too much racket under a bedroom window. I can’t really blame the neighbor for being upset, but there was no keeping Tom in at night and no way of predicting where his next street fight might take place.
Although he was deaf, Tom had what seemed to be extra sensory perception. He was tough to sneak up behind. Believe me, my friends and I tried enough times. But Tom would usually run a button-hook, turn and face us before he would allow us to walk up and pet him.
He was a good pet. He enjoyed his down time too. As he got older, Tom slowed down but always seemed to get a kick out of sneaking up behind people, like my Aunt Gladys, who were scared of cats. It was like he sensed it and sort of just played with them.
As time went on, the number of phone calls from neighbors decreased but “Six Toes,” the primary complaining neighbor (named accordingly because he had two small toes on each foot), kept up his phone calls from time to time.
Tom lived a charmed life. He ate well and he fathered more than his fair share of kittens, we were told.
Then, at about age 8, he developed a tumor on the top of his right ear. It was a small bubble that our veterinarian said should be removed. So Tom went in for surgery, which was no small task. Tom liked being in the vets office about as much as most kids like going to the doctor.
A few hours later, Tom came home minus the top portion of his right ear.
It didn’t seem to affect him too much. He still enjoyed relaxing outside in the sun and eating a healthy portion of food each day.
He also kept up his tradition of walkabouts a couple times a year but when Tom didn’t return in his customary time frame, we began to get concerned. We looked everywhere for him and Tom was not to be found.
Then I got an idea. Maybe Tom was hanging out under our frame house.
So I checked and much to my disappointment there was Tom, laying on his side, dead for about three or four days.
Sadly, we buried Tom in our back yard. For weeks and years we always wondered why Tom died.
Unfortunately, the answer was probably about four houses down the street. “Six Toes” once said he would poison Tom if he didn’t stop waking him all the time. We suspect that’s probably what happened and Tom came back to familiar turf to die.
He died far too young but his legacy lives on in our family. Unlike “Six Toes.”
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Article published on Tuesday, Oct. 20, 2009
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