We have an adult cat. Or rather, I have an adult cat. His name is Sutu, which is the same name as the first cat I ever had, a big fat Siamese. That Sutu was cool. Even the German Shepard next door was afraid of him. This Sutu has the same name. Period. He is and always has been one of those high strung skittish cats that fears everyone and everything on the planet. Except me.

Unless I'm not home and you can show him your cat food can opening abilities. Then he'll decide that you aren't some cat murdering pyscho for the length of time it takes him to wolf down three or four bites. When the worst of the hunger pangs pass, he'll remember that you aren't me and this was all a clever ruse to lure him out so you can kill him.

He's thirteen years old and there are members of my family who think I'm just making him up. They've never seen him. Well, they've seen pictures.

But he likes me. When it's just us, he acts like a normal cat. Always has. But let the front door open and he is gone.

We put him on Elavil once. I was hoping for Valium, figuring if he didn't chill out, maybe I could. That was a disaster. All it did was make him afraid of me. Because I was the only human on the planet who could possible get a pill down his throat without the need of stitches or blood transfusions. So we let him live under the bed. He seems to like it there.

So given his pyschological problems, I was a little concerned about bringing two kittens in to the house. But Sutu was the last of four cats we'd had while my son was growing up and I thought maybe some kittens would give him some playmates, spice up his remaining years a little.

Yeah. It was spicy indeed.

It was only a month of hissing and spitting and growling (and that was just me and Sutu) to come to some sort of detante. Which was that Thor was in charge. Of everything. And everybody. Including the humans.