Yes, I knew him well, but now I'm hungry. Feed me.

It occurred to me the other day that Missy Kitty, the plump bundle of cat fur snoozing on the wicker chair in the family room, is better known -- far more famous -- than I am. And I'm the one who elevated her to such high status by mentioning her over and over in this column.

Missy Kitty keeps coming up again and again because of you, dear readers. Whenever one of you sees me out and about, you say things like "How's Missy Kitty doing?" or "What's Missy Kitty up to these days" or "That Missy Kitty is really something."

I know there is something irresistibly charming about a cute cat. But what am I? Chopped liver?

Surely one of you might think to say something like "You're looking well today, Joe" or something to that effect.

No. It's all about Missy Kitty.

Not only is Missy Kitty better known than I am, but many of you can't figure out who I am or what I have to do with the famous cat.

So I'm at The Store That Sells Everything, and a complete stranger walks up to me and says: "Don't I know you?" I reply that I don't think we've met, but maybe you've seen my picture in the paper. The complete stranger responds, "Are you a criminal or something?" No, I say. I'm the one who writes a column. The face of the complete stranger brightens. "Say, do you know that guy who writes about Missy Kitty all the time. I think he's great."

At this point in what has turned into an absurd conversation, I am at a loss about what to say next. Should I point out that maybe I look like "that guy." Or do I smilingly attempt to preserve the complete stranger's dignity by not pointing out the obvious -- something I've learned over the years that most complete strangers prefer.

If I were to spin off this mortal coil, as will happen when the time comes, I imagine there might be a write-up of some kind in the newspaper. And if that happened, there might even be a little headline over the write-up. And this is what it would say: Missy Kitty mourns loss of Whatzizname

For the write-up, some enterprising reporter might have had the good fortune to interview Missy Kitty about me, since she would surely have intimate details about my softer, gentler side.

"Missy Kitty, tell me about that guy," the reporter might say, giving Missy Kitty unlimited options to extol my best and most worthy deeds.

"You mean Whatzizname?" The purring cat would most likely respond. "Yeah, he was OK, I guess. Bought me catnip all the time. Tried to turn me into an addict. Is that legal?"

The reporter, astonished not by what Missy Kitty was saying but by the fact that Missy Kitty can talk -- although she has a bit of a Sikeston accent, might ask the cat what her fondest memory of me might be.

"Him? Never paid much attention. OK. He gave me milk just about every time I ask for it. I guess I can give Whatzizname -- what WAS his name? -- a little credit for that."

This, my friends, is the truth about the obscure life of a newspaper columnist who, from time to time, shares a few thoughts about a cat who could wind anyone around her finger, if she had a finger.

Etched on my tombstone, no doubt, will be these words:

Don't forget Missy Kitty's milk.

The wording may be chiseled in fancy script of some kind, but the message will be simple and plain.

That's the way all cats -- not just famous ones -- like it. If there had been cats on the Titanic, they would have expected to go in the first lifeboat. Whatzizname is on his own.

By the way, I just read this column to Missy Kitty. She is purring loudly. She opened her eyes just long enough to say, "Thanks, er, what's your name again?"

All is right in the wonderful world of Missy Kitty. What did you expect?

Whatzizname, whose name is Joe Sullivan, is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.