Miss Kitty rules. Period.

Some of you have been kind enough to ask about Miss Kitty, the cat that has taken complete charge of my wife and me.

Since Miss Kitty is the boss, why don't you ask her?

When Miss Kitty came to live with us last May, after being one of Cape Girardeau's homeless animals that had unfortunately sought refuge next to a den of dogs that regarded her calico coat as little more than a moving target, she arrived with spectacular credentials in street smarts. She is a survivor. And a couple of humans who could turn door knobs with their opposable thumbs and drive motorized vehicles weighing thousands of pounds were not about to intimidate her.

At first, we thought we would be the boss. We really did. And this was not our first experience with cats. Our sons grew up with Blackie, the cat who saw both our boys enter kindergarten and held on until both had gone off to college before giving up his ninth life.

But Blackie was a tomcat. Not to make too much of a fine point regarding felines, but tomcats are governed by one part of their anatomy, even if they are neutered.

Blackie was a perfect pet and a great companion. He loved to ride in toy dump trucks and be carried from room to room in an old piece of luggage the boys used for their toys. But he could have won gold medals for eating and sleeping in the pet Olympics.

Miss Kitty, as her name implies, is not a tomcat. Whether or not she has been spayed is a subject of considerable discussion at our house, because we do not want a herd of Miss Kitty Juniors coordinating a coup that would put the entire neighborhood under the furry paws of conniving cats.

There are plenty of other cats in our neighborhood, mind you. But they have not yet formed any alliances considered threatening. For that, we can thank, in large part, Miss Kitty.

From the first day she arrived, Miss Kitty let the neighbors' cats, who liked to hang around our bird feeders and who occasionally allowed me to pet them, know that the Sullivan yard was her territory. Hers. Not theirs. Not ever.

And so there were quite a number of caterwauling encounters that would make your blood freeze until every other cat got the message loud and clear: Keep out!

The vet says Miss Kitty's reproductive status is in doubt unless she has a litter of kittens (proof that she hasn't been spayed) or suddenly gets friendly with the local tomcats. So far, nothing. Are we safe yet? We're not sure, and Miss Kitty isn't saying. We are holding our breath until spring, the traditional season for the pitter-patter of furry feet, arrives -- and goes away, we hope, without a single pitter or patter.

Meanwhile, Miss Kitty has shown her deep appreciation for her electric bed warmer in her garage nest by spending a great deal of time there, day and night, just inches away from her food and water bowls.

Between her healthy appetite, her limited physical activity and her thick winter fur, Miss Kitty has ... filled out. A lot.

I e-mailed our older son who lives north of Boston after we heard of the heavy snowfall a few days ago. He said he wasn't really snowbound, but he wasn't going out anytime soon.

I suggested we could send a St. Bernard to rescue him. Or Miss Kitty, who now could pass as a St. Bernard. Our son said that wouldn't be necessary.

I checked with Miss Kitty to see what she thought of the idea.

You can't tell much from the hind end of a cat sleeping on a heating pad. Not much at all.

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