Cat stories, and much, much more

Over lunch the other day, I mentioned to my wife that I hadn't written a column about Missy Kitty for quite some time.

Almost everyone who mentions my column to me also asks about Missy Kitty. There is always some story to tell. That's because she's a cat.

While we were talking, my wife and I started remembering the cats that have filled our lives with immense joy and occasional sorrow.

The first cat I remember was a calico on the Killough Valley farm in the Ozarks over yonder.

Like all animals on the farm, she was expected to do something useful. Keeping mice at bay around the barn was her primary job, but there were far too many mice for just one cat.

The calico cat liked to be petted, and I often held her in my lap. One Saturday morning, after I had been cleaned up and dressed in my Saturday-go-to-town clothes, I sat down on the front-porch steps to wait for my parents. "Don't do anything to get dirty," my mother warned. Dirty boys did not get to go to town.

The calico cat climbed into my lap, and before I knew it she deposited four newborn kittens on my freshly starched jeans. I didn't know they were kittens, but I did know that if my mother saw what was going on, I'd probably be in trouble for the mess.

I put the kittens on the porch. The calico cat got out of my lap. She took the kittens in her mouth, one at a time, under the house. By the time my parents appeared on the porch to go to town, the cat and her kittens were out of sight. And if I stood sideways, my mother couldn't see any evidence of newborn animals on my jeans. It was years before I told her the story of the kittens in my lap. She was horrified I had gone to town like that. Still.

When we lived in Dallas a siamese cat adopted us. We lived in an apartment complex, and the cat showed up one day and walked in when we opened the front door. It stayed several months. One day the cat walked out, and we never saw it again. Anyone who knows about cats will find nothing remarkable about that story.

When we moved from Idaho back to Missouri, my wife, her mother and our nearly 3-year-old son were in our car while my wife's father and I rode in a U-Haul truck. Somewhere in Montana my wife stopped for a bite to eat. We had a big gray tomcat, Smoky, on a leash for the trip. While the humans were eating, Smoky ran under a four-wheel-drive vehicle, and the leash got tangled in the drive shaft. When the vehicle drove off, the cat would be squished underneath. The cat was saved by a lad who came by and saw the predicament. I am pleased to report that the young fellow was a Cub Scout.

The cat that meant so much to our family was Blackie Midnight Sullivan. Technically, Blackie was older son's cat, but he was the family cat too. Blackie was with us more than 19 years. You can imagine how attached you get to an animal after all those years. Blackie endured five moves in those 19-plus years and never batted an eye.

One of younger son's cats was Tiger, who had a white-tipped tail. Tiger was young and had never been taught to hunt by its mother. But Tiger instinctively chased birds in our lawn. It would crouch down and slink toward its prey. The birds would hop away a few feet. Tiger probably wondered why the birds were alert to his presence. It was obvious to those of us watching this. Tiger's tail was sticking straight up with its white tip flashing a warning signal to all the birds.

Miss Calico came into our family about ready to have kittens. Before they arrived, we moved. In our new house the boys had separate upstairs bedrooms. We told Miss Calico that she needed to show both boys how kittens are born.

Well, it happened while my wife and I were at a Chamber of Commerce dinner. When we got home, the baby sitter was nearly hysterical. We, unfortunately, had not prepared her for the impending birth process.

Miss Calico, as it turns out, had two kittens on older son's bed, tucked them into the covers and then went to younger son's bedroom and had two more kittens. I am not making this up.

Other cats have made their way into our lives over the years, especially the Cape Girardeau string of Miss Kitty I, Miss Kitty II and the current feline resident, Missy Kitty. All of them have been special in so many ways.

But you already know that, particularly if you have a cat of your own or remember some of your special furry friends. Maybe some of them were even dogs.

Dogs are nice. I'll give you that. But cats are mysterious, moody, playful and cunning. Dogs chase bouncing balls.

What else can I say?

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.