Meet Mr. Whiskers, the bucket cat

Through sun and rain and sleet and worse, the bucket cat is on his perch. Okay, yes, I know that doesn't really rhyme, but trust me, nothing good rhymes with bucket, either.

Besides, that's not the point. The point is that in front of my porch I have a gigantic bucket. I didn't put it there; it was there when we moved in. I'm sure at one time it was filled with pretty flowers.

But for the last few years, it's been full of Mr. Whiskers. See, every time there's inclement weather - which we've seen a lot lately - the cat will whine to go outside. Except it's a ruse. He's not really going outside. He's just checking it all out from the safety of the bucket under the eaves.

The kids used to worry about the cat when he wanted to go outside and the weather looked iffy. When it started to rain or sleet, my son would say, "Mom, where's the cat?"

But now, I can just say, "Check the bucket!" and usually, all is well.

Giant bucket. Giant cat. Just thought I'd share.

P.S. I know the photo isn't the greatest, but Mr. Whiskers was annoyed at the intrusion and didn't care to pose. Sorry.

Mr. Whiskers' early-morning adventure

Mr. Whiskers is the family cat. He is a tabby, big as a Christmas ham and just about as active, although he has been known to stroll about the back yard and lounge malevolently under the bird feeders.

He showed up at our house several years ago, skinny and hungry, scratching incessantly at the door, sure he was home. He was, of course. He had been declawed and neutered, and despite our best attempts to find an owner, nobody ever showed up to claim him. We decided eventually he just went looking for a better offer.

We think he found it. He is one coddled cat.

So this morning, the morning of his adventure, Katie and I were walking to her bus stop. It was chilly and very dark with an overcast sky. We were chatting about this and that, not anything at all, when suddenly Katie gave me a startled look.

"Mom!" she exclaimed. "There's a cat behind you! But ... it can't be ours."

Surely not. The bus stop wasn't terribly far away, but farther than Mr. Whiskers was used to wandering. Or so I imagined. But his size rendered him unmistakable. It was indeed our Mr. Whiskers.

Not good. The subdivision was coming to life. Cars were starting to zoom by, motors were revving, and our usually unshakable cat was looking somewhat shaky. But he still determinedly loped behind us. I scooped him up. Katie giggled.

"Now everyone sees you carrying the cat around," she whispered "Now they all know you're a crazy cat lady."

The reputation was cemented when the noisy, creaky bus arrived and Mr. Whiskers freaked. He jumped from my arms, and I, deathly afraid he'd run into the street, ran after him, alternately cooing and shouting for his return.

After the bus left, he crept out from under a parked car, looked at me accusingly, then attempted to regain his dignity by following me home. He then feasted on his favorite meal of Fancy Feast Turkey Florentine and curled up on the blankets for a well-deserved rest. As well he should.