Arthur came into our lives around the summer of '80. My friend, Barbara, had bought her from a pet store and developed hives within 8 hours of bringing her home. "Can you take my little cat?" she asked sweetly. "Her name is Chablis." As we were already quite cat-enhanced, having five or six at the time, I shuddered at the thought of bringing home a new one, and a female, at that. But my friend was so upset, so, "what the heck, always room for another cat, right?" I'm still embarrassed to admit I practiced a bit of deception on my husband. I brought the little cat home, told Asa the sad story, and said, "Can't we keep him? We went through the "only until you find him a home", routine, and I knew we were "home-free." Arthur got her name from the song and movie of the same name. She is one of a rare breed--a white cat with deep cobalt blue eyes, that is not deaf. Indeed, she can hear Bubba breathing from 15 feet away--but more about that later.

As the time approached to get Arthur "neutered", I thought it was time to "come clean" with my deception, but devious woman that I am, I went about it a bit diffidently. "I've been looking at Arthur," I murmured one day, "and I'm wondering if he is really a she." "Hmmmmm," Asa said, and deftly turned her catty-wampus for an inspection. "Nope, he's a guy cat," he announced. Sudden hope filled my heart. "Are you sure?" "Yup. Balls is balls." Conceding to his expertise, I dropped the subject. Of course, time proved Arthur's femininity, and she was ultimately spayed. We felt that it would be a burden for her to adapt to yet another name, so she remains Arthur to this day.

As the years passed and we occasionally introduced new kittens to the household, Arthur took it as her duty to keep them in line. When they reached "a certain age", she began beating them up, as if telling them "Get out and get a job!" The poor creature never learned in all those years that the worm will ultimately turn, as each of them did, with a vengeance.

Bubba is her latest self-created monster (somehow Shannon escaped), and he delights in whomping her at every opportunity. Her life is spent in fear, knowing that the moment she relaxes, he will creep up and spring on her. She literally goes through life looking over her shoulder, with never a minute's peace. Many times, he doesn't lay a paw on her, just gives her "the look", which is enough to send her ballistic. He secretly delights in stealing close to her and then jumping in her face, although we have noticed that he leaves her alone when she is sleeping. There seems to be an unwritten cat code of ethics where sleep is involved.

Arthur has become so neurotic that she will rarely allow even her humans to approach her, although she has never been mistreated by us.

Yet, she will come around, very quietly and gently and sit at my shoulder and when I am aware she is there, noisily demanding to be petted. Petting Arthur is a double-edged sword. She has a very odorous drool, for which the vet has eliminated any physical causes. She also has the propensity for shedding large quantities of hair, no matter how frequently she is brushed. So petting her results in something resembling being tarred and feathered, as her drooling and shedding increase in direct proportion to her comfort level.

She is tiny (all of 5 lbs.), wiry, and quick. We try to keep her happy in her old age, but secretly agree that the constant flow of adrenaline is probably what keeps her ageless. And Bubba is certainly willing to continue to do his part in keeping her heart racing.

Afterward: Arthur went to Rainbow Bridge shortly before Thanksgiving, 1998. She lived to the ripe old age of 18 1/2 and was wiry and alert as ever, although Bubba cut her some slack toward the end. He seemed to know her time had come. I will always remember her with love as my "little old lady cat."