Before we had Belle, we had a Siamese cat. It was a sweet little cat, and we spoiled it rotten and lavished goofy affection all over it, and took a zillion pictures a week. We were disgusting over it, and people made fun of us. We considered them Philistines who just didn’t understand.

I even entered one of those pictures in a Cat Calendar contest, and lost. I was outraged, because no other cat could possibly have been cuter than mine.

We were stupid over the cat. You get the general idea. (Blush)

As I lay in the hospital bed after having Belle, I worried about how the cat would feel with a rival in the house.

I found out.

The cat was furious. He would stalk around and around the bassinett, and make noises that I’d never heard before.

Still, we lavished attention on the cat. He expected it.

And then one day, Belle was lying on a blanket on the floor, and the cat approached her. He cased the joint, looking first one way and then another, and when he thought the coast was clear, he tiptoed towards her like a sneaky cartoon cat, unsheathed a claw and raked her across the cheek.

My reaction was swift. The cat, who had never been outdoors in all his life, went flying through the open door and out into the yard, and he never came into the house again.

We fawned over him, and petted him outside, but he never forgave us. After about four months of snarling under Belle’s window, and pouting, he found a better deal down the road and we never saw him again.

Till the neighbor who had adopted him entered his picture in a calendar contest, and won it.

The caption under the picture said, “Oooh, look at the sweet kittie all ready for battle! ‘Wonder who’s making him think those fightin’ thoughts!”

I could have told them, but I didn’t.