Our story begins on a cold, wet day in December 1891. A determined tabby kitten with white paws decided that City Hall was his new home. He marched right up the front steps, sauntered down the main hall, and began calmly licking himself dry. Yes, really.
This did not sit well with Martin "Marty" Keese, the building's custodian. Marty was a no-nonsense Civil War veteran who had met Abraham Lincoln and even arrested the infamous "Boss" Tweed. If anyone could handle a stray cat, it was him. He shooed the kitten out. He even tossed him from a window. But as the old song goes, the cat came back. He just wouldn't stay away.
Marty, who lived with his children in a secret apartment on the top floor of City Hall (a perk of the job!), eventually gave in. The cat, now known as Old Tom, had officially conquered the heart of city government. As one reporter put it, he was “a fine example of the self-made American cat.”
For the next 17 years, City Hall was Tom’s kingdom. He saw six different mayors come and go, but his reign was constant. Life was good for the city’s unofficial mascot.
Tom was a regular at Board of Aldermen meetings, where he’d often nap in their chambers. He was particularly fond of City Council President Randolph Guggenheimer and loved to sit on his desk. The feeling was mutual—every Christmas, Guggenheimer treated Tom to a fifty-cent porterhouse steak dinner, a true luxury at the time.
In winter, Tom would curl up by a radiator in the basement. When spring arrived, he’d signal the end of the cold season by ambling down the City Hall steps to sunbathe on the warm plaza pavement—a sight that locals came to expect.
A true New Yorker, Tom had a busy social and professional life. He’d often visit his "girlfriend cats" who served on the feline police squad at the old General Post Office next door. He was also a famous sparrow hunter in City Hall Park, where crowds would gather to watch him in action. When he made a catch, he’d proudly deliver the unfortunate bird to the mayor’s office as a gift. Talk about trying to curry favor with the boss.
As the years passed, Tom and his human companion, Marty, aged together. By 1906, on what was likely Tom’s 15th birthday, the aldermen threw him a party. The now-deaf and feeble cat was served a special steak while his political pals shook his paw in congratulations.
No longer able to hunt, Tom relied on Marty for his meals. The two old friends could often be seen sunning themselves together on the steps of City Hall, enjoying their golden years side-by-side.
But time catches up to everyone, even legendary cats. On July 22, 1908, a heartbroken Marty knew it was time to end Old Tom's suffering. A policeman from the City Hall station gently led Tom into the park one last time. As Marty and a few politicians stood by to pay their respects, the city's most beloved mascot was peacefully put to rest.
Less than a year later, Marty Keese himself passed away. When officials entered his apartment under the City Hall dome, they found his collection of historical relics, scrapbooks, and—in a touching tribute to his old friend—cats. Lots of cats. The stubborn stray had turned the tough war hero into a complete cat person.
So, the next time you're in Lower Manhattan, take a stroll through City Hall Park. Picture a proud tabby cat sunning himself on the steps, the true king of the city, who proved that with enough persistence, you can make a home for yourself anywhere in New York—even if you have to win over a guy who arrested Boss Tweed to do it.
