Caligula couldn't adjust to living indoors. I figured as soon as he learned to use an electric knife, our days were numbered. So after a few weeks we returned him to the nursery. The owner said he was expecting us.

During my first marriage we had a similar cat, but I don't recall its name. I do recall I was afraid of it. I used to put a leash on it and keep it tied at one end of the basement so it couldn't get to me at the other end. But the cat always managed to get loose and would show up on the couch where I was watching television. It would climb to the top of the couch's back support and stare at me, then skulk toward me, like "I'm gonna get you, sucker!"

Karla and I may have battled over custody of the children, but I made it clear she could have that damn cat.

WHEN I MET my second wife, Olinda, she had a cat named Stormy, a wonderful pet, that unfortunately wandered off or was catnapped after Olinda and got married and moved to a new neighborhood.

Our last cat was named Nipper, who lived a long life, much of which was spent outside hunting and making friends. (We fed the cat well, but Nipper was getting at least one extra meal every day at a house across the street.)

The cat that made the biggest impression in our house was Smudge. It was Olinda who found Smudge and came up with the unusual name. Well, the cat itself was unusual. A pretty cat, a friendly cat (where humans were concerned), but a surprisingly effective huntress. I say surprising because if there's such a thing as a bulimic cat, it was Smudge, perhaps obsessed with becoming America's next supermodel feline.

Needless to say, Smudge always looked a few pounds underweight, but she loved the nightlife and wanted to prowl. Our first surprise was how determined she was. We had a family room in the rear of the house. It had four sets of windows, three sets being those Anderson things that you crank open, which we did a lot in the summer time because the house wasn't air conditioned and we needed all the cool breeze we could get. The screens for these windows were on the inside, held in place by aluminum tabs that weren't superstrong, but we figured they were plenty strong enough for our skinny Smudge. Besides, who ever heard of a cat throwing itself against a screen window just because it wanted to get into the house?

That's precisely what Smudge would do if we hadn't anticipated her arrival after her evening of hunting. Not only did she hurl herself against the screens, she blasted them off the window and onto the family room floor. And she'd do this while carrying a mouse in her mouth.

WORSE, the mouse in her mouth often wasn't dead. Smudge was bringing home prisoners she could torture for awhile. If we had her today, we'd rename her Gitmo. These mice weren't stupid. When Smudge dropped them, they hit the floor running – almost always toward the upright piano we had against one of the walls. Thanks, a bunch, Smudge.

So it was up to me to go after the mouse, which I did with a broom handle that I shoved under the piano. I was pissed, so was Smudge, because it looked like I was playing with her toy.

One night, after I caught, killed and disposed of the mouse, I foolishly put Smudge back outside, like that was some sort of punishment.

A few nights later the routine was repeated. Smudge returns, drops a live mouse on the floor, I catch it, dispose of it, then – and I thought I was being so sneaky – irrationally put the cat back outside, but this time out the front door, not the back. There, waiting on the front door welcome mat, was a dead mouse Smudge had left there – just in case.

WITH MERIDITH a toddler at the time, we didn't think it a good idea to keep her exposed to a pet who brought live mice into the house. Luckily we found a man who promised to provide Smudge a good home. We were completely honest with the man, but the more we talked about Smudge, the more interested the man seemed.

Several years passed. Then one day we received a call. An astonishing call. "How old is Smudge?" he asked. Not "How old was Smudge?" But "is."

"You still have Smudge?"

"Yes, she's going strong. I'm just curious about her age."

Which at that point was at least 13. Whatever. We were happy to hear the bulimic wonder was still alive and active.

A few more years went by. The guy calls again. I don't remember why, unless he wanted to tell us Smudge had just been officially declared the world's oldest cat. He thanked us again for putting the two of them together.

Maybe he trained Smudge to catch the mice inside the house and take them outside to play.

– JACK MAJOR