A guide to a cat's nine lives -- or maybe more

We've all heard that cats have nine lives. I believe it. But I also believe we have been wrong all along about how that works. You know, having nine lives.

And you know what? I think humans are a lot like cats in this respect.

Let me explain.

The popular explanation for a cat's nine lives is that cats, because they are cats, get themselves into life-threatening situations. A lot. But cats are canny animals. They are survivors. They look certain death in the face and walk away to lap up another bowl of fat-free milk fresh from the market. So the popular explanation is that if a cat gets into what appears to be a certain end to its breathing existence on this globe, it has eight more opportunities to befuddle human beings and outsmart sparrows. And so on.

But then there is the example of Missy Kitty, the cat who lets us live with her and who controls much of our lives.

What we have learned from Missy Kitty is that cats do not live their nine lives one after the other. They live all nine -- and sometimes more -- lives all at the same time.

Looking back at previous cats who adopted us and perhaps saved us from having to go into a sheltered home situation, it is apparent that those animals, too, were living multiple lives all at the same time.

Take, for example, the loving lap kitty who curls up when you're in your La-Z-Boy and sleeps so soundly that a repeat of the New Madrid Earthquake wouldn't bother her, except she would give you that reproachful look that says, "Stop jiggling."

While it looks like the cat is in hibernation mode, she actually is using the down time to plot her next bowl of milk.

Let me point out that milk, to a cat, is not a food. It is more than a treat. A bowl with milk in it is an ancient symbol, to a feline, of a cat's dominion over mere Homo sapiens. Any cat worth its salt is able to get a fresh bowl of cow juice at least twice a day. Three times if she puts her mind to it. Which she often does.

So right there are two cat lives: the cuddly, curled up pile of fur in your lap, and the conniving milk addict.

Meanwhile we have Missy Kitty the hunter. And Missy Kitty the protector of all she surveys, which includes all of Nona Nan's domain across the street. And Missy Kitty the closet-door opener.

Let's pause here a minute. Missy Kitty has this thing about closets, the darker the better. Any time she hears a closet door open, she's there in under two seconds. And she wants to get in the closet. Sometimes she gets shut in the closet accidentally. Sometimes she will spend hours in the dark amid old pairs of shoes before letting us know she's trapped.

Ah, but that brings us to Missy Kitty the closet-door opener.

We have those bi-fold closet doors on all our closets -- and there are five of these big closets with the bi-folds, if I'm counting correctly. Missy Kitty likes all of them. One of them is where her feather toy on a fishing pole hangs out. Sitting outside that closet is a no-nonsense message that some human is supposed to get the feather toy and play. Now.

Missy Kitty hasn't figured out how to open the closet doors from the outside, but getting out when she's inside the closet is no big deal. Just push on that middle fold, the one with the hinges, and the door pops right out. Fifty million years of evolution have not, it could be said, gone to waste.

Missy Kitty is 6 years old now. That means she could have another 10 to 15 years to amaze, befuddle and astound my wife and me. Missy Kitty could, it occurred to me the other day, outlive us both.

That brings us to Missy Kitty the retirement planner. At least part of her existence these days is, I'm sure, devoted to planning for those years when a couple of softies aren't around to give her all the milk she demands.

How many lives does that leave? I've lost count. Suffice to say Missy Kitty -- and all her cat companions -- are far more complicated that we can appreciate.

What fun it must be to live multiple lives as a cuddler and a scoundrel -- and so much more -- all at the same time. Think about it. That's what we humans do, too.

To cats, however, this is no big deal at all. Any cat worth its salt could easily write The Book on cats. It would say:

"I am a cat.

The end."

Why waste words?

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.