Hello, my name is Toss. I'm the tough boycat around here. I'm five years old. I'm not orange, I'm not yellow--I'm a ginger cat.

This picture is of me lurking around in the camellia bushes in our backyard. I like hiding in the bushes and pouncing on the other cats.

I came to live here in November of 1992, right before Thanksgiving. I used to live with Misha's ex-boyfriend's family (they called me Pumpkin), but I was having problems adjusting. I was brought to their house originally because I had gotten myself stuck in a tree, and couldn't get down. They felt sorry for me. But I would do things like potty in the middle of their beds, and laundry baskets, and get in fights with the other cats they had.

Misha would be there almost every day. I loved her. I would always run to her and she would pick me up and set me on her shoulder. I was barely two months old, so I could sit there, snuggled underneath her hair, purring.

The "final straw" came two days before Thanksgiving. The human mother there had pulled this huge roast out of the oven and set it on the counter to cool. Then she turned around to take off her oven mitts. When she turned back around, there I was, munching happily on that big roast. I was smacked off the counter and ran away and hid. The next day when Misha showed up, they said they were going to take me to the pound, unless she wanted me, because they knew how much I liked her. What could she say but "Yes!"?

So off we went, on that Wednesday morning, in Misha's truck. I sat in her lap the whole way there, a bit nervous, but happy that I was with her. She kept saying, "How on earth am I going to explain you to my parents?" She worked out the perfect story on the way back. She knew she had a trump card--her Grandma was out to visit for Thanksgiving, and she loved all animals.

So we pulled in the driveway and Misha carried me to the front door. She turned on her waterworks and started sniffling like she was upset, as she opened the door and we went in the house. There in the family room was Daddy, Grandma, and the housekeeper, who was dusting.

"Oh Daddy, it's the most horrible thing!" sed Misha as she began to relate this story about driving home and these awful people threw a plastic bag in front of her truck, which she swerved to avoid, and saw it wriggling. And inside it was me, and "Oh Daddy, isn't he the cutest little orange kitten you've ever seen?" Then Grandma picked me up and put me in her lap and started scratching my ears and neck. "What a poor little kitty...aren't you sweet?"

So I stayed. Everyone said how cute I was, and so tiny, too. Gypsy, Abra, and Bandit met me that afternoon. Gypsy hissed, but Bandit and Abra were pretty lenient with me. Misha, to keep up the act, kept saying, "Oh, my poor little tossed-out kitty. My sweet little toss-cat." and so on. That's how I got my name.

I had to sleep in the poolshed at night, for the first few days, to give the other cats time to adjust to my cute kitten self. The next day was Thanksgiving, and some other humans came to visit. They were all delighted with how cute and tiny I was. And I got some turkey, too! Boy, was that great!

That night, however, I started sneezing. The next day Misha and her Daddy took me to the Emergency Vet. I got my temperature taken, and a shot! and some pills I had to take, because I was sick. For the next week I got Pounce with a pill stuck in them.

Over time, I have become Daddy's cat. This picture is of me sitting in his lap in the backyard, which is what I get to do a lot (he's retired). I follow him around everywhere. When he cleans leaves out of our pool, I chase the drips of water that come from the leaf basket. I haven't caught them yet.

I also used to stalk the pool-cleaner, which rolls around on the bottom and sides of the pool. It had a hose on it that would always come out and squirt me. I would follow it around the pool, meowing quietly at it, saying that one day I would get it and make it pay for what it did to me. And I did! One day it surfaced in the middle of the pool, and I jumped out in the pool and landed on it! I drowned it, and got myself all wet at the same time! Misha, who was sitting in the hammock reading a book, heard my splash and leapt into the pool, about the same time I started swimming for the side. I made it out about the time she got to me, and I took off across the yard to hide! I was so embarassed. She caught me, though, and brought me in the house to dry me off and give me treats. Soon after, Daddy took the hose off the pool-cleaner, and I quickly lost interest in it.

I used to chase ice cubes that Misha would throw in the lawn for me. Then I'd touch them and shiver from the cold. One time, though, she threw one towards me, and I ran forward to get it. Well, it bonked me right on the forehead! I was scared of Misha for weeks, and I still flinch whenever she raises her arm too fast.

This picture is of me, standing in the driveway, looking at the front lawn. It was taken this last summer (1997).

Until Sparkle came to live with us, I was the baby-cat, the spoiled, the sweet one. Then she came in and took over. Tries to play-fight and wrestle with me, tries to charm Daddy into giving her more treats or laptime, tries to out-do me whenever she can. I really don't like her. I hiss at her when I see her in my house, or in my Daddy's lap, or eating my food. I still get a lot of attention from Daddy and everyone else, but I still don't like Sparkle for taking my position as youngest cat. Misha says it's good that Sparkle is here, because she distracts me from what used to be my favorite hobby--pouncing on Gypsy Rose, Abra, or Bandit, who are now old kitties and don't like playing rough.