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, which was popular back then. She was one of a rare breed--a white cat with deep cobalt blue eyes, that was not deaf. Indeed, she could 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 remained Arthur for the rest of her.

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

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

Arthur was tiny (all of 5 lbs.), wiry, and quick. We tried to keep her happy in her old age, but secretly agreed that the constant flow of adrenaline was probably what kept her ageless.

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. Her death was caused by squamous cell carcinoma on her ears and nose; the result of many years spending her days outdoors in the sun, as was the practice with all our cats back then. We learned too late that this one another of the many reasons cats should be kept safely indoors. I'll forever regret not learning those lessons earlier.

I will always remember my Arthur with love as my "little old lady cat."