RIVER CITY JOURNAL: LOSS OF PET CREATES VOID LIKE NO OTHER

There is sadness over the Sullivan household. It involves a cat. Again.

The family history with cats reads something like this: When you were young, cats were functional farm animals whose job was to control the mouse population around the house and barn. They were pretty good at their jobs. They were not pampered pets by any stretch of the imagination.

When you were first married, you discovered your wife loved dogs, so you tried a beagle for a while. You didn't like the arrangement, and, quite frankly, neither did the dog. A little later you had a free mongrel that wound up costing hundreds of dollars in vet bills and legal fees, all because of a stiff dog-control ordinance and a stiff-necked dog owner. You figure out which was which.

After your sons were born, cats were selected as the family pet of choice. The pets were to be affectionate and obedient. They were to tolerate small boys. And they were to impart the mysteries of procreation and live birth -- something every farm family takes for granted. City folks, though, rely on small pets.

It was in the sixth year of your first son's life that Blackie came into the family. He was a storybook cat. He slept with the boys, allowed them to maul him and never failed to show undying affection for them. He was a perfect cat.

Blackie also had many more than nine lives. You stopped counting after about the 20th life-or-death situation. He cost enough in vet bills that you once tried to get him listed as a beneficiary on the family health insurance. It didn't work.

That black cat endured. He moved five times and was always the first member of the family to adjust to new surroundings. Finally, in March of this year, in the 18th year of Blackie's remarkable life, he died.

There is a void when a pet dies that is like no other. You want to grieve mightily, but you constantly remember it was just a cat. You also decided, like many owners of aged pets, never to have another cat.

That lasted about four months.

That was when the nameless cat came into your lives. The small female kitten with the disposition of a 2-year-old immediately became a part of the family. You kept trying to think of an appropriate name, but nothing really stuck. You called her Kitty most of the time. It worked.

You discovered, as many empty-nesters do, that pets soon become dependents. You learned that you were too tolerant of this mischievous cat who thought arrangements of cattails were, appropriately, cat toys. You reflected often how this kitten got away with things you hadn't allowed your sons to do. You wondered if your sons would be jealous of the way you were spoiling the cat -- probably as a result of not having grandchildren. Hint. Hint.

The new cat was a full-time indoor cat. It had no idea of the real world. Its territory consisted of carpeted floors and soft queen-size beds to lounge on or hide under.

One night this week the front door blew open during the night. The safety chain was on, but there was plenty of room for a curious cat to get out. And out it went, into the night and the perils of streets, other animals and unknown territory.

How empty the place was the next morning. There was the cat ribbon on the floor -- her favorite toy -- but no cat. There was the ball-in-a-ring teaser toy, but no cat. There were her food and water, but no cat. She wasn't there to pounce on your feet as you put on your socks. There was no cat.

Unfilled space.

No purring.

Nothing.

There is an up side, perhaps. Your wife's allergies may subside a bit. You won't have to worry about boarding the cat when you leave on trips. No more cat litter to contend with. The cattails will survive.

Guess what.

You want your cat back.

R. Joe Sullivan is editor of the Southeast Missourian.