Thomas, the Siamese with a hotline to Heaven

A writhing mass of coiling black scales was proudly presented and waited menacingly at the top of the stairs for me - Thomas had been out hunting again!! He was most offended when his offering of a red bellied black snake, stolen from its hole near the river bank, was quickly killed and thrown into the fire box of the slow combustion stove which burned constantly in the kitchen. Not fully grown, but big enough to kill Thomas had it bitten him; and certainly big enough to instantly reduce my life expectancy by ten years.
Thomas was a neutered seal tabby point Siamese of no particular ancestry, but possessed of a close personal relationship with God who had endowed him with far more than the usual nine feline lives. He was an intrepid snake hunter and catcher and, during the warmer months, he insisted upon bringing home his catch - always still alive. While I was living in the mountains of the high country these catches were invariably tiger snakes and a bite from one would have quickly killed him. Which is what almost happened.
Upon going out the back door to walk up the hill to my small rural school early one morning in late autumn, I saw Thomas throwing into the air and catching, over and over again, a tiger snake about eighteen inches long. Each time that it landed and tried desperately to escape, Thomas pounced on its tail and the whole "throw it into the air and catch it again" sequence was repeated. I hoped fervently that the young snake's mum would not appear and come to its rescue! I managed to get Thomas away from the snake and we quickly left it to escape to wherever its little heart so desired. I took Thomas into the house and after a very thorough inspection decided that he had luckily evaded snake suicide yet again.
I was leaving for New Zealand the next day and the local policeman's daughter (who I was teaching at that time) was going to cat sit Thomas until I returned. When the time came to deliver him to Rachael, Thomas was not a well puss. It appeared that this time he had indeed been fanged. I could not cancel my trip, so the decision was made to nurse him "country style" and to hope that his connections in high places would help to ensure his recovery. By the time I left, his breathing was shallow, he was almost comatose and I did not expect him to survive.
He, however, had sent a catapathic message to his aforementioned powerful, heavenly mentor and upon my return three weeks later he greeted me in his usual exuberant manner fully recovered from his close encounter with the grim reaper. He gave up snake hunting after that but continued to pursue, and become involved in, other equally dangerous feline escapades.
Some of the young louts in this small, very remote country town having nothing better to do one Saturday night, decided to make their own fun with Thomas. He had followed me as usual down to the pub where I'd gone to have a counter tea, the only entertainment during an otherwise very quiet week. He always waited, and then returned home with me when I left. On this particular night he wasn't waiting, so I walked home expecting him to jump in through the bedroom window during the night. He didn't come home.
He was found late the next afternoon behind some empty beer barrels by the publican and he was very seriously injured. Those young sadists had held him down on the road and had run over him repeatedly on a small trail bike. They had also forced a broken stick into his rectum. (We found all this out when Thomas' policeman friend made some very angry enquiries). His jaw was broken, most of the skin was missing from his legs and he had a fractured pelvis. Bone was visible through his terrible injuries, his ears were torn and his tail was broken.
I rang the nearest vet who was over sixty kilometres away and he arrived one and a half hours later. After he examined Thomas, we decided to put him to sleep. The syringe was drawn and I had pulled out his front leg to raise the vein when he opened his eyes and miaowed feebly, then licked my hand. That did it! I knew he was asking me to give him a chance to prove his indestructibility.
My sister Julie and I nursed him constantly. He went to school with me resting on a soft sheep skin on a bean bag, where my indignantly enraged young pupils helped look after him. We fed him raw egg yolk and glucose through an eye dropper and stimulated him to urinate and use his bowels. He improved slightly, but his wounded legs were becoming necrotic and smelled offensive. Once again I decided to euthanase him as he was in such pain and was so sick. Dressing his wounds was a terrible ordeal for him although he never once attempted to bite or scratch me.
Julie, who loved him too, suggested we try one last thing. We gave him a massive dose of streptomycin, an anti-biotic capsule prescribed for the horses' use. (This was in excess of all the other medication he had already been given). I took him home determined that he would have to recover very quickly for me to change my mind. The result was spectacular. Within eight hours he was beginning to recover and two weeks later he was shakily mobile once again.
Those young boys were never charged, but the local cop caught them riding their trail bikes on-road and so they got their just desserts for breaking the law in another way. Not long after this distressing experience I re-married and moved a long way from that mountainous region with its unpleasant memories and Thomas had many more adventures. He was always in trouble but as I mentioned earlier, he was on miaowing terms with the Big Boss and so he reached a weary, battle-scarred old age, no thanks to his own intelligence. His final years were happily spent permanently indoors (but not out of trouble!) guarding my baby daughter, who harassed him unmercifully but whom he loved dearly. I could (and might yet) write a very lengthy book about my life, but I will always remember that rascal Thomas.