MY PET CAT.

I WANT to tell you about my pet cat. I am sure it will interest you. He is marked like a tiger, with white paws and a white pompon in the end of his tail. I have never seen or heard of a cat who eats the things he does. One day he knocked down a bottle of olives from the pantry shelf and ate four. Other things he likes are red beets and baked beans; sometimes he even prefers them to meat.

One of his bad habits is to lie in my flower garden. I have it in a bay window, where the sun shines on it all the morning. As it is nice and warm there, I have caught him a number of times trying to sleep among the flowers.

He isn’t a bit afraid of dogs; indeed, they are more afraid of him, for he often chases them out of the yard.

One morning last winter I could not find him anywhere. At last I heard a faint mew. I listened, and heard it again, this time fainter than before. I looked all over. At last I thought of the oven in the kitchen stove. I opened it, and out walked my pet, more dead than alive. He must have gone in when no one was looking, and so had the door shut on him.

One place he enjoys to get in is the clean clothes basket, and it is needless to say that the cook chases him. One day, after she had ironed a whole basket of clothes he jumped in the basket and went to sleep. He hasn’t gone into the kitchen since. I think he knows the reason why.

He hates to hear anyone whistle. When I begin he sits on his hind legs and cries until I stop, sometimes even jumping into my lap and begging me by rubbing against my arm.

We have another cat, who is kept in the kitchen. My pet seems to hate him. I believe he does not think the other cat half as good as he is. They are continually fighting, for “the kitchen cat,” as I call him, tries to take my cat down a peg or two.