Dr. Elston was the kindest, most caring man. He has been, and will continue to be greatly missed, and will always be the "caregiver in spirit" to both Pookie (who has since passed) and Cougar (Pookie's offspring). 

Ron & Sue Talaska

I have known Tom since 1992. Not a client at the time, I placed an emergency call to Dr. Tom on Thanksgiving afternoon as advised by a friend. I had a very sick cat. To my amazement, Dr. Tom responded and met us at T.H.E. Cat Hospital in Irvine for an emergency appointment. My sweet Mikie was in kidney failure. Tom saved Mikie's life with quick response, dedication, and expertise. Mikie and I had much to be thankful for that Thanksgiving.

Fifteen years later, I found myself with Tom again on Thanksgiving. This time as a couple. I cherish all the time we spent together right to the end. His love for animals and dedication to his clients always amazed me. He was one of a kind. One of the good guys. I will love him always.

A personalized tile in memory of our relationship has been installed at The Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, one of Tom's favorite places. The pelican on the tile is significant to our kayaking adventures in the Newport Beach Back Bay. The tile has become part of an entry wall in the hippo exhibit. 

... Cheryl Smith

Tom is my cousin – his father and my mother were brother and sister. I had no first cousins on my father’s side.

I have a few fuzzy memories in the early 1950’s when Tom lived in Kinsman, Ohio - where I grew up and where our Grandparents, Tom and Ruby Elston also lived. Tom was the oldest of the cousins and named after our grandfather. Most of my interaction with Tom occurred after his family moved to Ashtabula. I remember our family going to Ashtabula for Christmas or Thanksgiving and one very memorable snow storm that stranded us on the road until a farmer took us in and I had my first glass of unpasteurized milk.

Tom had a “hat trick” that involved the mirror on the closet door in the front entry way that made it look like the hat could move on its own. And, I remember a triple chocolate cake that he baked for us – it might have been a Boy Scout recipe.

I remember fishing with our Grandpa Elston, bamboo poles tied to the door handles on the side of his car. I remember both of us in his garage while he was cleaning out his attic. Grandpa brought down a World War I mess kit, medical bag, and a gas mask. He intended to give Tom the mess kit and I objected on the basis Tom was a boy scout and already had one. So, Grandpa gave it to me and I enjoyed having it but never felt right about it, and returned it to Tom a few years ago. I believe Tom kept it on his desk at T.H.E. Cat.

And, there were the legendary, Elston Spoon games. Tables broken, blood drawn, first aid occasionally necessary.

Tom’s Dad and my Mom competed almost annually to see who would have the first ripe tomato. A competition so intense that my Mom convinced my Dad to wire a store-bought tomato to her tomato plant in the front flower bed and she declared a win until Tom’s Dad figured it out.

I have to admit, in those early days, I was somewhat envious of Tom’s stature as the oldest cousin in the Elston/Trosper clan. He set the bar pretty high: Eagle Scout, accomplished diver, the first to go to an excellent college, merchant marine, veterinarian, contributions to an innovative approach to horse surgery involving a tilting table, a honeymoon on a sailboat, and first to move to a coastal city (with many family members to follow), and the clever play on his initials with T.H.E. Cat Hospital - I think his successes made me try harder and achieve a few successes of my own.

I appreciate the examples of excellence Tom set for me in our early days. As son, father, brother, Dr., industry leader and, in my case, cousin – Tom will be missed.

- Greig Trosper

The story below was written by Tom in 1966 and published in Potpourri, his high school's literary magazine.

Travel Trials on the Trail

Following the old wagon trails of the gold rush days can still be hazardous and perilous for the modern-day traveler, as my family and I discovered two summers ago. We followed the route, known as the Mormon Trail, that my great-great grandfather had traversed as wagon master of a wagon train in 1853.

We had just come across the Continental Divide at South Pass in Wyoming. Our road map showed an unimproved road that left the main highway we were on and cut cross-country to one we wanted to catch. We figured this would save us about 180 miles; and, as it corresponded to a short cut known as Sublettel’s Cut-off on the trail map, we decided to become pioneers and “rough it”.

First, we stopped in the little town of Farson, Wyoming, where the road started, to inquire about the condition of the road. We were told it was a forty-mile stretch of dirt road, hardly ever used, cutting across a prairie containing nothing but a few natural inhabitants. We were also told it was safe, provided we didn’t have a flash rain storm. The sky was bright and we had made up our minds to be adventurous, so we started off.

My dad was a little leery about making the short trip because we had two bad tires. Although there was a new set of tires on the car when we left Ashtabula, we had replaced one by then and two others were almost bald. My dad realized the rough road might be quite hard on the tires, but he was more of a pioneer than the rest of us, so we chanced it.

The first fifteen miles went by smoothly. We met one motor vehicle, a government truck, and it turned out to be the only one we encountered. We were enjoying the scenery, watching the prairie dogs and jack rabbits along the road when all of a sudden my mother started screaming, "Look out! Look!” A magnificent prong horned antelope bounded just in front of our car and sped off across the plains on the other side of the road. It was quite a thrill seeing an antelope that close, but it was a little too close for comfort.

As we talked of the near miss, the car began to sway slightly. We had a flat and were twenty miles from nowhere in the middle of a semi-desert. We unhitched our Apache camping trailer, unloaded our trunk and changed the tire. After reloading the car, we continued more conservatively on our way.

We watched the miles ro1l slowly by on the odometer. We had about three miles to go when we came to a river. The bridge that crossed it appeared to be a good sturdy one, capable of bearing many tons, but it only appeared to be. A pretty, little yellow sign nailed to it caught our attention. Printed across it in big, red letters was B-R-I-D-G-E U-N-S-A-F-E.

Do you think we turned around and went back? Well, we didn't. With the courage of those early travelers, my dad slowly started our car across the bridge. Everybody held their breath, trying to make themselves as light possible. The bridge creaked and groaned. All of us were ready to tumble into the river, but not a plank of the bridge gave way. As soon as we reached the opposite bank, and not until then, everyone breathed a big sigh of relief.

We reached the main highway safely and continued on our way, but all of our thoughts were on the adventure of the afternoon. The hazards and perils we had encountered made us feel closer to our pioneer ancestors than anything else on the trip.

Tom Elston