The cat came back and it's not leaving

Why, I muttered as I stared at the calico cat some 25 feet up the pine tree in our backyard on a rainy, slushy, cold Thursday morning, did I ever let that cat in our house?

Why did I let it live in our downstairs?

Why did I name it Winston when it's a girl?

No answers came to mind. But I knew this much: That cat was stuck high in that snow-covered, towering tree, and I had to get it down.

I started climbing ...

•••

No cats.

That's long been one of my basic guidelines in life. For starters, I'm allergic to them. The longer I'm around them, the more my eyes water and soon, I'm a sneezing, sniveling whiner (don't say like usual). And we've always been a dog family. We have three of them.

So, you would think a cat would never get past our front door.

Wrong.

Not when you're dealing with me. I don't always think clearly.

Allergies? Perhaps they'll go away.

Three dogs? Maybe they'll like this cat.

Still, looking back to that Thanksgiving night, what choice did I have when a fluffy, furry, calico came meandering and meowing down the street around midnight and it was like zero degrees and there I was outside our house. It ran right up to me and began purring. I couldn't just leave it to freeze. What kind of person would I be then? Yeah, that's right. I'd be the bad guy.

So, I did what any pushover would do: I brought it inside.

"What are you doing?" my wife asked.

"You can't bring that cat in here," my daughter said.

Both believed it would find its way home if I left it alone. Made perfect sense, really. But I don't live by what makes sense.

"He'll just stay downstairs until we find his home," I said as I held up the cat and he hissed and growled at our disbelieving dogs.

Shouldn't take long to find a home for it, I thought. I can't bring it to the Kootenai Humane Society, which is already crowded with cats. I'll put an ad in the paper for a found cat. Someone will claim it. After all, it's a nice, friendly feline. Seems to like people. House trained. No problem here.

Nearly two months later, the cat is still there ...

•••

Winston, as I named it after George Winston the pianist, turns out to be a girl. Unlike dogs, you can't tell if a cat is happy or sad. They always seem to have an expression of disregard for anyone in the room, an attitude that rules don't apply to them, that they are for certain superior to dogs, and for that matter, better than you, too.

Truth be told, Winston is a good cat. She doesn't ask for much and hasn't caused any trouble, other than clawing the couch, the carpet, my books and sitting on the keyboard when you're at the computer. It's hard to be mad. One night I was reading the George Bush book, "Decision Points," when Winston wandered in, hopped up in my lap, curled into a ball, and went to sleep. Try that with a 100-pound lab. I did. Didn't work.

Still, since I'm allergic, I can't be around Winston too long. I tried making her an outdoor cat, and brought her out to the garage where she had cover and blankets. That, however, is what left me staring up the pine tree that morning.

I forgot I put Winston in the garage, then let my wife's dog Barkley out the upstairs door. Barkley hates cats. A minute later, I heard the barking and yowling, dashed outside, where they were scraping back and forth, the cat clawing, the dog darting, fur flying. Winston, sensing she couldn't win, flew up the tree, darn near to the top.

Oh, I got her down, soaked and shaking, and brought her back inside - where she promptly peed on the carpet to show her displeasure with being harassed by a lowly dog.

Things can't get worse, can they?

They can.

Shortly after Winston moved into our house, we made one more discovery about her, which leads to this question:

Does anyone want some kittens?

Bill Buley is the city editor of The Press. He can be reached at 664-8176, ext. 2016, or bbuley@cdapress.com.