Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Tummy. I know: what kind of name is that for a tomcat? After all, I am very large (not fat, mind you), and I know how to strut my stuff if you know what I mean. The goofy name is just one of the many indignities I’ve had to endure at the hands of humans.

First, one set of humans took me in. I don’t recall what they called me due to the trauma of having later been thrown out in a plastic bag.

Then, another set of humans “rescued” me and dumped me in a shelter where I had to go through further trauma; that’s right, they took away my manhood under the euphemism of “neutering” me. And if that wasn’t enough, day after day I had to endure to beauty parade. Of course all of the cute little fuzzy guys got taken away before me (though there were some older dudes who just disappeared).

Also, they stuck me with the name of “Tummy” because I liked to have my belly scratched. Had them fooled! Think of it: pet me on my head and, yeh, I could quick turn and bite. But pet me on my stomach, and I can grab with all four sets of claws and then bite.

Anyway, my turn finally came, and a set of humans took me home with them. Wow, my very own castle! I rule the place. So I’m supposed to only eliminate in the litter box, but hey, dudes, every now and then I wet my bed. You’d think I’d committed murder and spread blood everywhere the way they yell when they discover the wet spot.

Most of the time, though, life is pretty sweet: I eat, I sleep, I eat, I sleep. My humans are gone a lot during the day so I have the run of the place. Or I should say I used to have the run of the place. Somehow they didn’t like me stealing stuffed animals from the kid’s room, or bedding myself down on the pillows in the master bedroom, or hiding one of the kid’s shoes (took them a while to find my secret hiding place that not only had the shoe but the squirt bottle they used to try to train me to stay off things).

Notice I said “try to train.” Sure, while they’re looking, I stay off the kitchen counters, the dining room table, etc., but just let them turn their backs and see what I can do. There was the unfortunate incident of the ham sandwich that went missing from the kid’s lunch, and the cake that was cooling on the counter that had nibble marks on it. I kept looking at the kid for that one, trying to share the blame, but no good. And did they learn not to leave the lunch out? Not until after I had swiped the cookies one time and the cheese stick another time (I never said they were the brightest humans).

Then there was the case of them trying to train me to keep out of the garbage. As any good former stray, I knew how to raid garbage cans. The humans had sat at the dinner table, chowing down on the most delicious smelling barbecued ribs and never once offered me the slightest morsel. I waited until they were sound asleep (you know “not a creature was stirring”), flipped over the trash can and helped myself to the bones and what little meat was left on them. Again, the yelling that went on the next morning when my crime was discovered! At least I got a more macho nickname out of the deal: “Bones” and, in some cases, “T-bone.” After that, they tied up the cans, though, clever as I am, I’ve been known to get them untied.

There was also the case of what I like to call “Cat in the Pantry.” I blame them for keeping my food in the same pantry in which they keep theirs. So the absent-minded mom goes to get their food out of the pantry and leaves the door open. Isn’t that an invitation for me to help myself? Anyway, she looks over, sees that the door is open and shuts it, without noticing that I’m in the side with my bag of food. So dinner comes and they’re calling and calling for me, ignoring my meowing from behind the door. It takes the kid to figure out that I’m in the pantry. Funny, I wasn’t hungry for dinner, having had my self-serve meal. Again with the yelling, even though it wasn’t really my fault that my food and I were confined together.

Though the bedrooms are off limits when no humans are home, I have access to the kid’s bedroom at night. She doesn’t mind me getting comfortable on her pillows or on her blankets or on her. So we just doze off together, and life is good for another day.