The debate? Or Missy Kitty? It's the year of choices

Like so many of you, I watched the presidential debate Monday night. I thought to myself that, surely, something would pop out at me during the debate that would warrant my sage insight, thus resulting in a column worth reading.

Alas, dear friends, I was moved by both candidates in ways that would not be acceptable to relate in this newspaper, which holds to a moral standard far above modern politics -- a standard that is worth the effort to preserve.

Therefore, the rest of this column is about Missy Kitty.

I mean, what did you expect?

Really?

There is just one facet of presidential politics regarding Missy Kitty that you should know about. It is this:

When Donald Trump comes on whatever television program we are watching, Missy Kitty dashes to the front door, demands to be let out and starts digging in the mulched flowerbeds to Â… Well, you know what cats do when they dig holes in flowerbeds.

And when Hillary Clinton comes on the TV screen, Missy Kitty starts this guttural screeching that is genetically connected to savage, to-the-death confrontations related to prehistoric felines. It is the kind of yowling that would indicate the loss of a limb or some other major tragedy. Well, there you are: a major tragedy, indeed.

But Missy Kitty's days are not filled with dread and fear. She is, after all, a cat. And she enjoys the many lives of a cat.

Like playing with a mouse instead of killing it. Or playing with a mouse AND killing it. Cat's choice.

An addition to Missy Kitty's routine these days is the playtime devoted to chasing a bird on a string while slipping and sliding on the slick hardwood floors of our foyer.

This "bird" is actually three feathers tied together and attached to a string, which, in turn, is fastened to a limber pole. The whole shebang looks like a fishing rod baited with a small turkey.

Missy Kitty loves it.

So, this is how Missy Kitty's schedule starts each morning:

Roll in the driveway while I fetch the paper.

Get tummy rubbed by paper-carrying human.

Run to the new feeding area in the laundry room for dry food, a bit of milk and a bowl of water.

Take up a post in the foyer near the hall closet where the bird apparatus lives most of the time.

Do anything -- scratch, yowl, chatter -- to get a human's attention so the human will know it's time to get the bird-on-a-fishing-pole out of its closet to be chased with amazing leaps of feline dexterity.

After a few leaps in the air, Missy Kitty usually manages to catch the bird, which she holds with her front paws and by clamping her teeth on the feathers.

We used to do a little tug-of-war after Missy Kitty caught the bird. But then there was that unfortunate dental malfunction that clearly indicated Missy Kitty's mouth deserved better care.

So, now when Missy Kitty finally catches the bird, the limber rod and string are placed on the floor, a sign that the battle is over, and Missy Kitty is the clear winner.

Missy Kitty puts the bird in her mouth and takes it to the rug by the front door, string and rod trailing behind. Or down the hall. Or under the dining room table. One morning she actually took it back to the closet where it lives.

Game over.

I'm sorry if this column is a bit shorter than usual. I'm not deliberately trying to shortchange you in any way.

It's just that there is a terrible screeching come from the foyer, and Missy Kitty appears to be digging a hole right through the rug in the front hallway.

Ah. I see.

Hillary and Donald are both on the TV. At the same time. Maybe those split screens weren't such a good idea after all.

A cat can only take so much. And nine lives might sound like a pretty good deal, but they don't last forever.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.