The adventures of Tom Sawyer, whoever he may be

/Irina missiuro

Hi, my name is Tom Sawyer, and I’m having an identity crisis. My mom was feral, according to those who knew her, but I don’t like to judge. After she abandoned me, I left the farm with a woman whose hair matched my fur. Maybe we were related? It’s not important though; the love I felt for her was unconditional. The woman was good to me, teaching me how to behave like a proper gentleman and feeding me wet food twice a day. Her husband was the best thing about her, though. He had the most comfortable stomach and always let me lie on it while he stared at the TV. Now that I’m with this other family, I miss that stomach! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I don’t know who I am. If I come from feral stock, why am I not living in the wild? And if I’m domesticated, why do I frequently get the urge to go beyond the French doors and run around, dipping my paws into the wet white stuff that I like to lick off the shoes? It’s not as filling as giblets in gravy, but it’s still delectable. You have to be quick, though, because it doesn’t taste as good from a puddle on the floor.

So, back to the crisis. The old couple used to call me Tom Sawyer. Personally, I always felt that the name was a bit long. Now, these new owners think they can do what they like. They showed up at Petco, removed me from my cage and placed me on the boy’s lap. I attempted an escape, but they caught me. I was humiliated as they took turns holding me, as if I were some sort of a delicious tuna fish. When they signed the papers, I knew I passed the cuteness test. I’m not saying this to brag, simply stating the obvious. After all, there were other cages there on the table.

That daring boy was the one who triggered the crisis. He was too lazy to pronounce my full name and kept calling me Sawyer. Then, the rest of them chimed in with their own versions. If these humans can’t make up their minds who I am, how am I supposed to? Am I Tom? Tom Sawyer? Sawyer? TomCat? Tomichka? Tomchik? Wait, am I Russian?! You see what I mean – it’s enough to send one to the catnip shop.

Don’t get the wrong idea, please. I did try the stuff a couple of times, but I don’t indulge. Too much of a good thing; no need to mess with your head like that. There are other ways to find happiness. I prefer to look for spontaneous opportunities to amuse myself. For instance, I like to pretend that I’m a scarf when the mom is reading in bed. When I do that, she can no longer see the book and is forced to pet me. Let her think I wrap myself around her neck out of love. On the night she doesn’t give me enough attention, I jump onto the bed once she falls asleep; one has to stand up for himself … sleeping comfortably on a mattress doesn’t hurt either. Also, when the family is watching an Italian movie, I enjoy resting on the TV stand, so that the subtitles are out of view. It’s time to learn a new language, folks!

But life’s not all fun and games. I do help around the house quite a bit. Whenever the mom is cutting up a roast chicken, I’m standing nearby, waiting to gather all the bits she doesn’t want. I don’t even mind eating the fatty skin – the sacrifices I make for this family! Not to mention my work on their furniture – what a difference I’ve made! Before, all their barstools were smooth and boring, just like their dining chairs. Now, they all have beautiful texture. You’d think the people would appreciate the effort I’ve put into adding distinguishing characteristics to their surroundings. You’d be wrong. The same goes for my typing assistance. When the mom is beginning to look as if she doesn’t know what to write, I sometimes offer help by climbing on top of her keyboard and typing for a bit. Do I hear thanks in return? Not unless “hooligan” is Russian for thank you.

I’m not bitter though, just sad. Whenever I feel unappreciated, I like to sit on a windowsill and watch humans pass by. They too look like they don’t know who they are. Maybe I’m not having an identity crisis – maybe it’s our permanent state on this planet – to wonder and to question and to discover? Now I’m all verklempt. Wait, am I Jewish?!

Editor’s note: Tom Sawyer is a Providence resident. He has two siblings – Andrew and Sasha. Tom works as manager of the Missiuro household.