Cats are not cantankerous and indifferent little beasts. They are hardworking professional animals who are totally focused on three missions: Endear and amuse; test the limits of human irritation; and the other one.  

Bella was well-prepared, arriving as a little white bundle of confused and clumsy fluff, so pretty that her name just came naturally. This was the kind of kitten that can make people who ought to know better say, “Okay, we’ll take two of them.” 

Once inside the door, it was showtime. She was a master of comedy, which was a good thing since she didn’t seem to come equipped with any of the other standard cat skills. Leaping, bounding and pouncing were out of the question. As she became an increasingly larger bundle of fluff, her recreation consisted primarily of crawling into boxes half her size where she would sit with her head poking out, as if wondering how she got there. 

She didn’t see any reason to chase anything when she knew that whatever she needed would be brought to her regularly. If she did, the thing being chased would have little to worry about. Her gait was not meant for hunting. She moved in rapid but tiny little steps – sort of frantic, like a portly woman in high heels hurrying to catch a bus.  

I sometimes called her Prissy Waddlebottom, which could have been a good stage name for a musical career.  

Bella sang to my sock.   

In the middle of a quiet morning, we’d hear unbelievable screeching and caterwauling, the kind that goes with a life-threatening emergency, and charge out of our offices to see what was going on.  We’d find Bella sitting calmly in front of a sock she had pulled out of my bureau, giving it a good talking to in an operatic way. Always the same sock.  

She would look at us with an expression that said, “Do you two need something? I’m kind of busy here.” It was hilarious. At least it was for the first two or three hundred times.  

And that brings us to The Second Job Cats Were Sent Here to Do: Testing the limits of human endurance. Again, she was a master. Some of those operatic sock hops happened at 3 a.m.  

Every fleece thing we own is covered in a layer of fluffy white fur. Lots and lots of hairballs and other upchucking. Cuddling up with her butt in a human face at night, cuddling up on a book you’re trying to read, ripping the fabric off furnishings, climbing curtains, running into and breaking breakable things when the curtains fall… 

Being a cat.  

Her best tactic was the wake-up call. If Bella got hungry at 7 a.m. and we were still sleeping, she would show us that she could pounce with the best of them. At 7:01, she’d launch herself from the nightstand, a TV wrestler coming off the top rope, and it would be like a 14-pound sack of something had been dropped on your abdomen from the roof. This could be repeated as necessary for as long as it took.  

We had our fights. She won them all. 

And then it came time for that Third Job, the one cats really excel at: Breaking your heart.  

Bella left us last Thursday. We sent her home curled up in a box too small for her, wrapped in a blanket she ruined, with food dish, an extra can of Tender Vittles and a bag of treats.  

And I’ve got a sock on my desk that makes me both smile and cry every morning. 

Mission accomplished.