The little black-and-white mouser, with a wanton personality, provided me with material for two columns, but I didn't think she would become a minor celebrity. She turned out to be our community's Paris Hilton.
Everywhere I went � to soup kitchens and even to church � people asked me: "Where is Misty now?"
Phyllis gave her a name, but she should have christened her Minnie the Moocher because that's what she was. Where ever there was food, Misty always showed up.
As cats go, she was not a stunner. She never would have won a purple ribbon for looks. Her conformation was not the best, and she had stubby legs. You could never have accused her of using steroids.
But that didn't matter to the lascivious tomcat she met in her wanderings. To him, beauty was only skin deep, and he didn't care about Misty's flaws.
Phyllis then arranged for the cat's abortion and hysterectomy. However, I don't think Misty would have been a good mother any way. She would have left her kittens at the first sound of a chow can being opened.
But she made friends. Even though Phyllis couldn't pet her unless she had her head in the food dish, she beguiled my wife even when she fed her.
Frankly, she was not at all like our two indoor cats, Baxter and Bailie, who can't be tempted by stuff to eat. Not Misty, though. Like Garfield of the funny papers, she would gobble up anything in sight.
She would chow down on table scraps as quickly as she would on the expensive pellets I bought. I couldn't figure how any cat so small could be as hungry as she was. She would catch squirrels, baby rabbits and song birds � and then come in begging for supper. We couldn't fill her up!
When another can came around looking for a hand-out, Misty would growl and otherwise make angry noises � but she wouldn't fight to protect her bowl. It was as if to say: "Phyllis will take care of me ultimately."
And so Misty thrived, even as we moved away. My wife � the animal-lover � wouldn't let her feline friend starve (as if she would!), and in time she found that ravenous cat a new home.
I couldn't believe it when I heard that Misty was gone again to who-knows-where; but I was relieved to learn that she had found someone to care for her like Phyllis did.
After all, Misty needed to have her belly full, no matter who provided the grub.
As for me, the world doesn't need more five-cent cigars, but it sure could use more cats like Minnie the Moocher � if for no other reason than that she gives me something to write about.
Misty � or Minnie � can provide a good story line where ever she goes. She's more than a MINOR celebrity!
� 2005 Robert F. Karolevitz