KITTY KITTY DIDN'T HAVE A NAME - HIS STORY

We never named the cat. None of us could think of a name that suited him. We tried, we really did, but we never found one. He was the only pet we never named.

So we called him Kitty Kitty and he always replied, seeming to like the sound of the words. I guess you could say that was his name, but only by default.

One of my sons brought him home - unexpectedly - when he was just a little baby kitten. He was orange, with short hair, and a ball of energy and affection.

We already had a dog, a gentle giant of a mastiff called J. Yes, just the initial J, because that's the name my daughter wanted for him.

Picture this: my son was on the floor with the kitten, in the living room , watching the little kitty explore his new home, when my daughter arrived home with her big dog.

She and the dog stood in the doorway for a few seconds as the kitten walked across the rug, and then the dog seemed to leap eight feet across the floor, into the room, right to the kitten, and pick the poor little baby up in his mouth.

I thought that was going to be the tragic end of the kitten.

I was horrified, imagining the dog biting down and killing the kitten in a bloody mess.

Luckily, the dog had no such intention. My son put his hand out and the dog dropped the kitten into it, no harm done. Evidently, J was just being friendly and the terrifying moment was over.

Well do I remember how Kitty Kitty liked to play in the middle of the night. He'd run across my bedroom floor, or anyone's bedroom floor, and then up the floor-length curtains. All of the curtains ended up with holes in them from his sharp little claws.

We couldn't sleep through his nightly play time, either.

Kitty Kitty also liked to get under the covers on our beds while we were sleeping, crawling way under to our feet.

How I hoped he'd outgrow his kitten ways.

And he did.

Before Kitty Kitty we'd had some cats we weren't happy with. The worst one was a nag. All she seemed to do was meow for food. Loudly. Persistently. Very annoyingly. All she cared about was demanding food. After she ate she disappeared for a while and then came back meowing again.

About ten years before Kitty Kitty joined us, we'd had Pussyfoot. He was a quiet cat.

My children were toddlers at the time, and I waatched Pussyfoot train them to leave him alone. If he was sleeping in a chair and one of the little ones went near him, he'd whack the hand with his paw. He kept his claws in, didn't scratch, just hissed and whacked. That was enough to scare the little one away.

What I didn't like about Pussyfoot, though, was his idea of a fun game. It was evidently fun for him, but it wasn't for me.

It seemed that at least once every day I'd go upstairs and there he'd be, waiting for me, hiding around the corner so he could jump out at me. He'd bat at my leg, I'd jump and yell, and he'd run away. It just wasn't fun for me.

A neighbor up the road had some kind of hunting dogs, and sometimes they'd be in our yard when he stopped by.

When they were, I'd watch Pussyfoot through the window.

He'd hide in tall grass and watch the dogs, just waiting for his moment.

When it came, he'd jump on one of the dog's back and send the poor thing out of its wits.

Maybe it was one of those dogs that got him.

Something did.

He went missing.

We called for him and looked for him for days but couldn't find him.

Then, about five days after he'd gone missing, I was at the kitchen sink when I saw him crawling up the front path.

I ran out, calling to the children that Pussyfoot was home, only to discover he was seriously injured. The vet couldn't save him; but Pussyfoot had come home to die.

Kitty Kitty, though, matured into a far better pet than Pussyfoot or any other pet we'd ever had. He was my idea of the perfect pet. When he wanted one of us to pet him, he'd jump up near us and wait to be invited into a lap. He never scratched or hissed or nagged us. He never jumped onto the dining room table.

I think he had a good life. We lived in the country, so he was able to run free, he had a big barn to explore, and he was welcome in the house whenever he wanted to stay in.

He always came home at night.

And then one night he didn't come home.

I didn't want to worry. I didn't want to imagine the worst. Instead, I figured he'd found a girlfriend and was spending some time with her. It was that time of year.

We spent days and weeks looking for Kitty Kitty. My children told their friends he was missing and they all watched for him, but we didn't find him and he didn't come home.

That was the end of the story of Kitty Kitty for a couple of years. He had disappeared.

Then one day I had driven to a neighboring village, about eight miles away from home, and I stopped in the general store there for some squash soup they were known for.

That general store was more of a gift shop, uncluttered, with a long wooden counter along the back.

There was an orange cat stretched out on the counter, sleeping.

I ordered a container of soup from the wife and then her husband began telling me about the cat on the counter.

"I found him in the woods", he explained. "About two years ago, it was. He was near dead, cold and starving, skin and bones. So I brought him home and we fed him up and look at him now! He's the best cat we ever had, just a nice guy, gentle and loving".

I told the man my cat had gone missing two years ago, and he looked just like this cat.

He told me in no uncertain terms this was his cat now, he'd saved him and kept him and wouldn't ever let him go.

I couldn't prove it was Kitty Kitty, and he hadn't gotten up and shown me he remembered me. No, he'd simply let me pet him, without showing he knew me, without acting happy to see me.

I assured the man I didn't want to take his cat, that if it was my Kitty Kitty, I was just glad to know he'd survived.

The man said he was the best cat he ever had.

I took one last look and left the store.

I didn't think to ask if he'd given the cat a name.

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