You don't choose the cat, the cat chooses you

Cats are funny critters.Oh no, I don't mean "ha ha" funny, though their antics may sometimes merit a smile or two.I mean funny as in odd, unpredictable, completely beyond understanding.Take Oh No!, my resident feline, for instance. Well, no, I don't mean "take her" literally. I've actually become quite attached to this gray and white fur ball in the past few years. I just mean let's consider her somewhat strange attitudes and behavior from time to time.I have been convinced since her first arrival on my doorstep that Oh No! is clairvoyant. How else would she have known that Missy, my English Springer Spaniel, was no longer on guard? Missy had guaranteed that no feline dared set paw upon the property since we moved here in the spring of 2001. In fact, most cats crossed the street to avoid the off chance they'd come face to face with Missy.But now, barely 10 days after Missy had succumbed to a sudden and virulent cancer, I saw a gray and white cat stroll across the patio and sit down in a patch of April sunshine. How had she known it was safe? I didn't, at first, and yelped Oh No!, fearing the dog would suddenly come charging around the corner. By the time I remembered that Missy was no longer on duty, the cat stretched lazily then ambled away.I really didn't want another pet. I especially was not interested in acquiring a cat. Except for those who lived in the barn on our small acreage in rural Newcastle, we'd never had cats. We were dog people; big dogs such as great Danes, German shepherds and Samoyeds were our choice. Now, as a widow newly transplanted into city life, I wasn't even interested in another dog.Oh No! had her own ideas, however. She was scratching at the sliding door in the family room when I got back from attending a grandson's wedding in Massachusetts a week later. I swear I opened it only a few inches, but she darted between my legs and made a thorough inspection tour of the house.Back in the family room once more she sat down complacently and began a slow and deliberate face washing. The message was clear: This will do, I'm moving in.And move in she did. Fellow members of the grand jury gave her a baby shower, complete with a fancy litter box and many catnip laced toys. She used the litter box but turned up her nose at the catnip flavored playthings. "But I thought cats loved catnip" I wailed. Eventually I gave most of the spurned toys away. Other cats received them with delight. Oh No! meantime played long hours with the rubber bands that came on the morning newspaper.Then there was the food. Most cats love milk. Oh No! didn't. She sniffed at it, turned an accusing eye on me and stalked away. Once in a while she would condescend to lap up some heavy cream and recently for several weeks she seemed to delight in evaporated milk.As soon as I laid in a good supply of this, however, she spurned it and even tipped over the saucer.Canned food suffers the same fate. Television commercials tout the delights of Fancy Feast - Oh No! prefers dry food and water. And not just any dry food, please. She has her definite favorite.As for water, she prefers a thin stream trickling from the bathroom faucet. As a last resort, she'll lap from a bowl - but with evident disgust.And though she weighs only six and a half pounds, Oh No! sleeps wherever she chooses. Sometimes it's the guest room bed, sometimes my bed, if she can settle in the direct center. I bought her a lovely woven reed bed, which she conscientiously ignores. But she loves to stretch out on the Irish sheepskin that lines the top of the sofa in the family room. It was intended as a rug, but I thought it was too pretty and white when I got it home. Now it will have to go to the cleaner to get rid of the oil and dirt from her fur.Sometimes she will tolerate being picked up and cuddled. Sometimes she simply goes limp in a dead cat pose. Reluctantly I have come to face facts: I do not own a cat; she definitely owns me. And she proves it every morning by howling in my ear until I throw back the covers and face the day.Cats, as I said, are funny critters. Helen Bale's column appears every other Sunday in Lifestyle.