Miss Kitty

When I was around one year old, my family acquired a kitten - one mean-mammajamma'-of- a- kitten. The mean kitten was so mean that neither my parents or the vet could determine the sex. The kitten was white, fluffy and had small black spots all over - "it" was beautiful. She was given the name Miss Kitty - a kitten that beautiful had to be female.


When the time came to spay Miss Kitty, we were shocked to learn that Miss Kitty was a Mr Kitty. By that time, we had already been calling him Miss Kitty for so long, that the name had stuck.


When I was four, my brother Curtis was born. I'm sure that one of the first things he learned as a child was to fear the wrath of Miss Kitty. Miss Kitty terrorized my brother and I. He'd chase us, claw us, bite us - he enjoyed it immensely too, I'm certain of it. At bed time each night, my brother and I would be paralyzed with fear; we knew that Miss Kitty knew when it was time for us to trudge to bed. He (Miss Kitty) would position himself at the crux of the long hallway leading to our bedrooms. His tail slightly twitching, his paws ready for massacre. Slowly, Curtis and I would inch toward the hallway of certain doom. We'd peep our eyes slowly around the corner to see if, indeed, Miss Kitty lie in wait. Almost certainly, every time, there he lay. Near the end of the hall, positioned perfectly in between my room and my brother's lie the cat, his eyes glowing like the fire pits of hell, waiting patiently for his prey.


"M-m-m000000000000m!" I would whimper "Miss Kitty is in the hallway again.." My brother still clinging to the back of my Bon Jovi nightgown could only ever nod in agreement, his wide terrified eyes glued to the cat. His fear of Miss Kitty was always much greater than mine.


Annoyed that our parents felt it necessary to laugh at our plight, my brother and I would wait impatiently for rescue. We could not understand the bravery of our parents. They could walk right up to that evil cat, and pick him up like it was no big thing. The cat would emit an annoyed mew, but never offered to bite or savage them the way he did my brother and I.

At night Miss Kitty was locked in our basement. Through our vents Curtis and I could hear Miss Kitty meowing. To us, they sounded like blood moans - his daytime terror turned to night time dread. His meow wasn't right, either. They were more like long low pitched howls. "mmmmmoooooooooooowwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnaaaaaaoooowwwww" he would roar. Over and over - the sound of it echoing through the vents made a haunting sound. I'd lie there, eyes wide open, praying he wasn't making his way up the vent in a quest for vengence. (of course it wasn't that frightening, but you know, dramatic effect and all).

As Curtis and I grew older, I found the trick to Miss Kitty. Confidence. If he saw a trembling, sweaty mass coming toward him, his sensors alerted attack mode, and then you'd best run. However, if you confidently approached him; your head held high - he was confused and not sure how to respond. Though his rippling muscles were surely always tensed and ready for battle, you could pick him up just under the front arms and render him harmless for a brief time. To Curtis' horror, I used my new found mastery of Miss Kitty to his detriment.


"If you don't (whatever), I'll throw Miss Kitty on you!" I'd threaten him. My hands outstretched with an increasingly pissed fluffy white cat, claws primed for carnage, dangling precariously over Curtis' gangly 10 year old body.

Sometimes I'd chase him around the house with the cat; it's a wonder my brother even speaks to me these days. I don't know why I turned on Curtis in such a way, he was always a sweet little brother. Never annoying, always passive. I suppose I was just a nasty little pre-pubescent thing. God knows my hormones went insane for a brief period - just the memory of it gives me chills. For a few years I most definitely resembled Shelley Marsh, from Southpark - I acted like her too - ohhh the memories my family must have.



Anyway, back to Miss Kitty. As Miss Kitty aged, he tamed down immensely. His once fluffy hair was dull and lifeless and his rippling warrior muscles were flaccid and weak. Miss Kitty must have known that he no longer held court of the meanest cat around, because he actually became friendly.

They always say the mean ones live the longest, and Miss Kitty held true to that saying. On his 21st birthday, Miss Kitty's reign of terror ended. He died in his sleep, still the king of his castle! Despite all the terror he wreaked in our household, his death was very sad for us all. The funny thing is, through all of the many pets we've had, cats, horses, dogs, birds and rabbits, Miss Kitty is the only one who still haunts my dreams. I bet that's just the way he would have liked it, too.