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Cat knows her right away, though.

Clothes don't fool him.

He rubs her leg and curls up on the sofa beside her, still keeping a half-open eye on the oven door in the kitchen, where the turkey is roasting.

Tom comes in, also in city clothes—a white shirt and tie and jacket—the first time I ever saw him in them.

He sits down on the other side of Cat, who stretches one paw out toward him negligently.

Looking at Kate and Tom sitting there on the sofa, both looking a little ill at ease, I get a funny idea.

My family is starting to collect people the way Kate collects homeless cats.

Of course, Kate and Tom aren't homeless.

They're people-less—not part of any family.

I think Mom always wanted more people to take care of, so she's glad to have them.

Kidding, I ask Kate, "How many cats at your home for Thanksgiving dinner?"

She stops stroking Cat a minute and thinks.

"Hmm, Susan's got four new kittens, just got their eyes open. A beautiful little orange one and three tigers. Then there's two big kittens, strays, and one old stray tom. Makes eight, that's all. Sometimes I've had lots more than that."

"Doesn't the landlord ever object?" Pop asks.

Kate snorts.

"Him! Huh! I pay my rent. And I have my own padlock on the door, so he can't come snooping around."

We all sit down to dinner.

Pop gives Cat the turkey neck to crunch up in the kitchen.

He finishes that and crouches and stares at us eating.

Kate gives him tidbits, which I'm not supposed to do.

I don't think she really wants to eat the turkey herself.

She's pretty strictly a fruit and yogurt type.

After dinner Tom leaves to meet Hilda, and I walk home with Kate, carrying a bag of scraps and giblets for her cats.

While she's fiddling with the two sets of keys to open her door, the man next door sticks his head out.

"Messenger was here a little while ago with a telegram for you. Wouldn't give it to me."

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