This black cat has been seen a couple of times since his first visit and I hadn’t thought much more about it until reading my neighbor’s posting on Facebook. Ironically, it was in front of his house that Thomas, who had crossed two fields and a few acres of woods to get there, had been found, hit by a car.

Jay wrote about the squirrels going after his bird feeder and his efforts to keep this mob away and then added a passage about a black cat now getting in on the act.

Naturally, knowing that Thomas and his siblings had originally come from that area, I good-naturedly teased for him to leave the cat alone as he had come to give me comfort while I was mourning.

“That *%&#! black tom is the father of several black and whites in the area as well as the foundling you took in!” he wrote in exasperation.

This made my heart leap: the father of Thomas.

“Then don’t you dare lay a finger on his head!” I typed feverishly, “He’s mine!”

Just as with Thomas, I shall have to assume the posture of a desperate woman waiting for her man to make a commitment. I shall feed him when he appears, talk in low, quiet tones to gain his trust, wring my hands with worry when he disappears for days and scold the terriers when they try to chase him from the yard.

I will be content with scraps of affection thrown my way that may or may not, lead to a charming relationship filled with quirks and humor and abiding love. And, like Thomas, I know that these feral males will never consent to remaining steadfastly indoors for the rest of their lives, so there will be another chance that he will venture off the farm and be lost to a coyote or car.

But how can I resist? As the father of Thomas, he needs to come home, and after all, to quote Robert Frost: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”