RIVER CITY JOURNAL: THE NEW CAT, OR NO TIME FOR G'KIDS

The decision: As usual, the boys responded to your fatherly advice about marriage and grandchildren in typical fashion: silence. Other fathers might be offended. You simply see it as the green light to get another cat.

The humane society: Don't go to the animal shelter, your younger son warned. Why not? Because you will want to bring all the cats home. How did he know? The shelter is staffed by enthusiastic pet lovers. This can grate on your nerves if they are babbling about dogs. But, it turns out, they are equally high on cats. Said one worker at the shelter: "If you call a dog, it comes. If you call a cat, it says take a number and I'll get back to you." This young woman really knows cats.

The once-over: There they are in cat-sized cells with bars: a dozen or so cats in need of new homes before Dr. Kervorkian visits. Some are tiny and terribly cute, but your cute cat skedaddled. Maturity is high on the list. And fixed. It has to be fixed. Some of the toms are so large they can't turn over by themselves. What do they eat? Collies?

The choice: This tortoise-shell mother of two, recently spayed, looks at you with eyes that say, "Give me a break." She is skittishly affectionate. A rare blend. And she is dirty. Really dirty. Don't forget: She is fixed.

The adoption: Forms, forms, forms. One question that went begging for an answer: Why do you want to adopt a cat? You are tempted to write in the blank: "Stir fry." They are nice folks, so you behave.

The arrival: The cat is carried home in a pet carrier. Inside, she is shown the litter box and the food and water bowls. You pray she will use them in the right order. She immediately disappears. You have had some experience with disappearing cats, so you aren't too worried.

The search: Hours later, you begin to wonder if the cat escaped. You were so careful. You look under beds, sofas, chests of drawers, tables, recliners -- everywhere a cat might seek refuge. "Did you look behind the piano?" your wife asks. There is only about an inch and a half of space there. Your wife probes with a flashlight. "There she is." Like a Clydesdale in front of a beer wagon, you begin to labor without question. Eventually the cat is free. Welcome home.

The vet: The cat doctor begins her examination: "Oh, a female." Yes. "And pregnant too." Arrrrgh! It is a diagnosis misled by the cat's recent litter. "Sorry," says the vet. "Didn't mean to scare you." Your blood pressure should subside in a month or so.

The bath: The last long-term relationship with a cat managed to last 18 years with nary a bath. But now the deed must be done. You lock yourself in the bathroom with a frightened cat, a stack of bath towels and some special cat soap. The cat cooperates. Not that you would want to give a cat a bath any more often than, say, 18 years or so.

The cold: The cat loved the part about getting dry after the bath. Purred and purred and purred. The next morning it was sneezing and breathing through its mouth. But it is a clean sick cat.

The lap: This is the best part. Not only has the cat found a good use for the litter box, it has carefully divided its attention between your lap and your wife's. It likes to be stroked behind the ears and on the rump. It purrs at the slightest bit of attention. It eats when it wants and sleeps the rest of time.

Good kitty.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.