No grandkids? Miss Kitty steps in

Lordy, my wife and I need grandkids. We really do.

Otherwise, Miss Kitty is going to bust. She is so spoiled.

But what are we supposed to do? We have reached that time in our lives when we should be sharing the wisdom of our years with young parents who, without us, surely would make a mess of everything.

We should be stockpiling hard candy, the kind that will rot out your teeth, in large quantities.

We should be watching horror movies, the kind that give you nightmares, with 5- and 6-year-olds when their parents aren't looking.

We should be saying things like, "Corn dogs for supper? You bet! And how about some cherry-chocolate ice cream? It's almost like fresh fruit -- in this house, anyway." Wink. Wink.

And will we ever get to say the words every grandchild longs to hear? "It's OK to skip your bath tonight, Honey. And we'll try to remember to brush your teeth in the morning. You go on and play your video game."

Or how about this? "You're so lucky. Not many 7-year-olds get to ride Grandpop's motorcycle."

Of course, this particular wannabe grandpop doesn't have a motorcycle. I'm just dreaming here. There's always the BB gun ... .

So what does any of this have to do with Miss Kitty?

Well, let me tell you.

Our outdoor cat has found the soft spot my wife has in her heart for small furry animals. My wife's the one with all the allergies, you know, which is why we have an outdoor cat (who sleeps in a warm garage on a sheepskin mat with a heating pad).

But when the temperatures started to drop a few weeks ago, my wife started letting Miss Kitty into the house when she came home from work. Miss Kitty, being a cat, is making the most of it.

As any decent cat would, Miss Kitty has explored the limits of her visiting rights to the fullest. She is not permitted to go into a bedroom to sleep on any pillows, which she likes to do. She is not permitted to get on any furniture upholstered in white fabric, which is all of the living room and dining room. She is not permitted to lounge on my wife's multicolored afghan draped on the family-room sofa, which is identical to my multicolored afghan -- both were made by my mother -- draped on the wicker chair on the opposite side of the room. My afghan is fair territory.

One of the nice benefits of being indoors, Miss Kitty has learned, is that my wife will, at some point after arriving home, cover the bottom of an upturned lid from a mayonnaise jar with fat-free milk and set it on the kitchen floor next to the refrigerator. Which explains why Miss Kitty positions herself just a smidgen to the left of the refrigerator when she comes in, and she won't budge until my wife has fulfilled her milk-serving obligation.

With her winter fur and her voracious appetite, Miss Kitty is plump. Roly-poly. Round on every edge, if you get my drift.

For quite a while Miss Kitty's next move after getting her milk was to test the waters, so to speak, to see where she could go and where she could curl up. She hates the word "No!" and cringes when she hears "Bad kitty!"

Now all she does is look at us. If either of us shakes our head, she tucks her tail and skitters to the wicker chair with my afghan and hunkers down while we shout "Good kitty! Good kitty! Good kitty!"

Life, at least from a cat's perspective, is all about doing what gets you the feline equivalent of corn dogs and ice cream.

Which is why grandparents get to spoil their grandkids. It's all about teaching them not to sit on the white sofa after playing all afternoon in a pile of dirt.

Someone's missing out on a lot of corn dogs, and it's not our fault.

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