I'm not accustomed to living in a house without a pet. It doesn't necessarily have to be a large pet, although I draw the line at such toy-like curmudgeons as hamsters, tropical fish even my favorite, black mollies, and white mice. But it needs to be large enough to pet, and tame enough to lay off the rough stuff, like shredding the upstairs couch and leaving claw marks all across the downstairs end tables.

And so, about five weeks ago, blithely sitting in the family room, reading Balzac's Old Goriot, in the English translation, and waiting for Ginny to get home for lunch, I suddenly felt bereft of the small, docile animals that used to keep both of us company.

I'm speaking of our Irish setter Molly Bloom, when she was a mere pup, who used to stay put if we told her to; Mao Tse-Tung, Jessica's calico cat, with neck ruffles that made her look like the first Queen Elizabeth; and, among others, Astro, Jess's long-lived black cat, whom she picked up when she resided in Santa Barbara, and virtually lived for our affection.

I suddenly regretted the absence of fur. I missed the cuddling they used to give us when we were at home. Jessica, who long ago used to fulfill that function, is now, of course, too old to put up with that dalliance (at least with the two of us), and now comes home only on the rare occasions when she's on this particular continent.

So I felt the need of an animal, and was willing to take one "for reading purposes only." Coincidentally, one of Ginny's friends had rescued a black kitten from the grip of neglect.

It had been abandoned by a renter who had evidently skipped town, and the friend/owner was looking for a cat-lover who would be willing to adopt him because she already had a cat, who had become mighty jealous of the newcomer. I went out to look at it--I use the neuter pronoun, because it was yet too small for anyone to be able to tell its sex. It proved to be extremely affection-starved. It would have wrapped itself around a telephone pole if there had been one nearby.

And so, as a result, I chose to call her Annie. Sweet Annie. Even though her hummer was nearly on Empty, I could hear her trying desperately to sound like Beverly Sills. Good cat! I took this black kitten home with me. It instantly settled right in, wrapping itself around my neck on the car trip home.

How fortunate, I thought, that the owner, whoever he or she might be, hadn't insisted that the cat be adopted by a strictly Christian home. I'd often wondered at the newspaper ads that had insisted on that. Is the cat/dog owner expected to take the animal to church on Sunday morning to receive communion? And what do you say to the minister when your cat bites him on the hand. Moreover, during the week, is the cat/dog forbidden, upon pain of excommunication, to curse and swear, when he/she gets into a violent argument with another cat/dog? I had no idea. 'Twas a puzzlement.

From time to time, I turned Annie upside down, to determine if I had her sex right. True, I felt embarrassment in doing this, but I didn't want to go out on the town calling a cat Annie, when I should be calling that cat Harry. Let us call the cat the provisional name of Annie, until we take her to the vet and find out for sure. We agreed on that.

Well, when the time came to take our black kitten to the vet, the vet's assistant turned it over, and said, "You know, for a girl cat, Annie has a pretty good set of _ ." Harry it became. And Harry it remains to this very day.

I think it was Ginny who, a few weeks ago, thought it would be kind of nice if little Harry had a playmate. And, as luck would have it, we discovered a medium-size black cat, a sure-as- shootin' mouser, on our 10-acre farm out in the country, a little past Nevada Veterinary Clinic, on South Ash. This little guy had no collar, he was looking pretty scrawny, and he appeared at our barn door repeatedly night after night, as we pulled up at the barn door. The first night I opened the truck door, he jumped on my lap and began to exercise his hummer to beat the band. "Maybe he's hungry," said Ginny, as I recall. And that's of course, all it took for him to feel welcome come rain or come shine. Ginny went around the neighborhood to investigate, but to no avail.

We brought him home (he didn't complain) and introduced him to Harry. Harry emitted a half-hearted spit-and-a-half, then gave it up and welcomed him to the house where you don't have to hunt mice. Since a portion of each of the new cat's black legs is colored white, Ginny named him Boots--which, when you try to say it fast, is harder than Annie--but, hey!, I know better than to complain. Boots it became. And Boots it remains to this very day.

Now, there are two cats who rush around the house, knocking half-full Coke cans and soup dishes off the dining room table. Even when the two of us are in bed--Ginny is always asleep before I am--I am aware of Harry and Boots chasing each other around the house.

At first, before we introduced the two silent hell-raisers, I'd thought that because Boots was somewhat older than Harry, Boots would terrorize the little fellow. In fact, it's the other way around. Harry is a solid guy, where Boots is a little frail. It's Boots who occasionally squeaks in the night --u nless that's the mice who make that noise.

And so, that's how the Nash household stands at 9:15 p.m., Wednesday, Nov. 2, 2005.