Thomas lies on his side in feline repose. His head is supported on my yesterday's sweater and he gives the slightest suggested of a snore. His magnificent black coat has its winter thickness and his white socks and jabot form the outposts of his deeply fluffy white tummy, bulging slightly between his neat paws. Thomas is not a thin cat. Thomas is also not a shy cat. In fact, Thomas has got the world (well HIS world) by the throat and is able to while away the obliging hours in easy relaxation. He has, as far as I can tell, not a care in the world. When I reach out to stroke him lightly, without opening his eyes, he stretches back and paws and then forms into a slightly rounder shape to continue his nap. The only acknowledgement of my humble service is a little purr. This book is his. I suspect him to be truly wise, and from time to time discover his huge amber eyes gazing consideringly at me, every line of his furry self expressing his surprise at the incomparable stupidity of the human race. I'll let him tell it.
