A cat for all seasons

For more than 19 years, my family -- wife, two sons and myself -- were owned by a black tomcat named Blackie.

As you can tell from the name of the cat, my family is highly creative when it comes to pet names.

The current ruler of the roost we call home is a calico who, I am quite certain, in a former life was royalty -- a queen or empress or even a pharaoh. She now resides with humans who call her Miss Kitty. Quite a comedown from Your Royal Highness. Sometimes she scolds us with narrowed eyes and flattened ears as if to say: Couldn't you be a little more clever?

Blackie, being a tomcat, was not predisposed to do cat tricks or cuddle in your lap. He was more prone to doing what tomcats do best: eating and sleeping. Fortunately for everyone, he adored young boys and would submit to anything they wanted to involve him in.

Cat behavior is a science for some, and some would say it's so darn predictable. I disagree. I've been around cats for well over half a century, and I would say their personalities are as unique as snowflakes. There are some cats you love, and there are some cats you love to hate.

We could always tell when autumn turned from Indian summer to the first blustering of winter by Blackie's behavior. Perhaps it was the fact that this turn in the weather occurred around Halloween -- and anyone who knows anything about cats knows how tuned in they are to the spirits of this world and the next.

For a good many years, a major shift in the jet stream brought colder temperatures and a blizzard of wind-blown leaves right about the eve of All Saints Day. We always knew it was coming, because Blackie turned puckish, hardly sleeping or eating until whatever static there was in the air became grounded. Sometimes that took several days.

And when those seasonal changes coincided with Halloween, there were amazing things in store.

When our sons went trick-or-treating, they would be well down the block before anyone noticed that a certain black cat showed up just as each door opened, arching his back and hissing, his slender tail whipping as the wind blew out candles inside carved jack-o'-lanterns.

As quickly as he appeared, Blackie would melt into the storm-tossed night, only to reappear in the pool of light flooding from the next open doorway.

Arch.

Hiss.

Boo!

If you've never felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up, you should've seen Blackie when he was in his prime.

As soon as frost became a regular morning visitor, Blackie would sink into near hibernation, happy to find a warm spot to curl up inside a house whose occupants kept the food dish full and the water dish fresh.

Miss Kitty displays few of these characteristics as cold weather starts nipping at our heels. She would not have been the right cat for two young boys. She disdains youngsters of any sort, two-legged tykes or four-legged fluffs of fur. As far as we can tell she has never been a mother -- or, if she has, had a rotten experience.

The good news is that cold weather means most of Miss Kitty's fur stays on her instead of coming off in clumps like during the hot days of summer.

Which is why Her Highness can be thankful for small favors. Thanks to autumn's glide toward winter, we've never reached the point of calling her Baldy.

Yet.

Yes, we could stand to be a bit more clever.

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