To this day he will sit on the front porch or the window-sill and growl
if he sees a tramp or suspicious character approaching. He always goes
into the kitchen when the market-man calls, and orders his meat; and at
exactly five o'clock in the afternoon, when the meat is cut up and
distributed, leads the feline portion of the family into the kitchen.

Thomas knows the time of day. For six months he waked up one housekeeper
at exactly seven o'clock in the morning, never varying two minutes. He
did this by seating himself on her chest and gazing steadfastly in her
face. Usually this waked her, but if she did not yield promptly to that
treatment he would poke her cheeks with the most velvety of paws until
she awoke. He has a habit now of going upstairs and sitting opposite the
closed door of the young man who has to rise hours before the rest of us
do, and waiting until the door is opened for him. How he knows at what
particular moment each member of the family will wake up and come forth
is a mystery, but he does.

How do cats tell the hour of day, anyway? The old Chinese theory that
they are living clocks is, in a way, borne out by their own conduct. Not
only have my cats shown repeatedly that they know the hour of rising of
every member of the family, but they gather with as much regularity as
the ebbing of the tides, or the setting of the sun, at exactly five
o'clock in the afternoon for their supper. They are given a hearty
breakfast as soon as the kitchen fire is started in the morning. This
theoretically lasts them until five. I say theoretically, because if
they wake from their invariable naps at one, and smell lunch, they
individually wheedle some one into feeding them. But this is only
individually. Collectively they are fed at five.

They are the most methodical creatures in the world. They go to bed