Tom
The amateur surgery, however, was not completely successful. Though Thomas’ bone knit, the poor mangled flesh remained unhealed, and at last the cook conveyed her darling in a basket to the most celebrated London animal doctor. Thereafter ensued a time of horrible suspense. Telegrams went briskly backwards and forwards. Dr. Jewell “doubted if he could save the limb.” Tom’s adoring family could not contemplate the tragedy therein implied. “Better euthanasia!” we wired. “Will do my best for little cat,” the sympathetic Æsculapius of God’s humble creatures replied. Hope and devotion triumphed. Tommy returned to us with three legs in large fur trousers, the fourth as close as a mouse. The fur thereon has never grown to full length again. We fear it will never grow now.
Dear old Tom is toothless, and he is getting a little bald on the top of his head; but he is a beautiful creature still, and a dandy. His four spats are always of an almost startling snowiness; his shirt-front ditto. He is not very fond of any of the other animals, and was so revolted by Kitty-Wee’s mésalliance that she could not show her face in the kitchen without his instantly using as severe language as ever John Knox to Queen Mary. “Hussy!” was the mildest of his terms.
THE DUTCH GARDEN
