Dogs have owners - cats have staff. Funny (and true) commentaries around this theme regularly waft through my email in-box, cataloguing the sterling qualities of dogs. ...and I do love dogs. I do.

I am, however, first and foremost, a cat person. There, I've said it - out loud and in public.

The cats in my life have always known this. Cats can spot a cat person from across the street and down the block. Like the hobos of old, riding the rails during the depression and leaving markers on the gates of those kind souls most likely to offer food or shelter, cats, too, seem to have an uncanny knack of marking us so that we will be known to other cats when the need arises.

I have been the temporary host of several feline rail-riders, well-mannered hobos who passed through my life on their way from one abode to another. Occasionally, I was permanently adopted for the duration of their stay among us - at times, an all-too-short span. At other times, I was simply an accommodating host on their route.

Several of the cats I have been privileged to serve did have homes and loving families, but they seemed to have a surplus of affection, or wanderlust.

Whatever his reasons, the one I particularly recall arrived on my doorstep on a very chilly winter's eve, friendly, gentlemanly, but insistent that it was much too cold to be out. As the temperature had dipped to minus 33 and promised to stay there for several days, I, too, was concerned for his well-being.

As he was well-fed and well-groomed, I guessed he came from a loving home, and was concerned his family might be looking for him. I reluctantly let him in and he settled in my big comfy chair immediately , letting me know he was pleased that I had made the right decision. When he sauntered to the fridge later, fluffy plume erect and waving gently at the tip, I took his hint and offered him a wee bite. That, of course, sealed my fate.

My new friend was quite happy to stay the next few nights, but insisted on his release the morning the cold snap broke. He returned again that evening for supper but declined to stay the night this time, citing, I'm sure, a prior engagement. Our relationship continued for several months in this same manner.

He was quite a playful fellow and often demonstrated his prowess as a mouser, as well as being a most welcome and amusing house guest - one who never overstayed his welcome. He seemed to know instinctively when it was time to leave, and, courteous to a fault, was never one to overstay his welcome.

He did not, however, appreciate the robins, and narrowly escaped their wrath several times. I came to recognize the look and would open the window to allow him in. His entrance was usually swiftly followed by scolding robin parents. Sometimes they would give chase from their nest across the street and I would see a black, fluffy streak coming fast and low across the lawn, the robins wheeling and diving towards his head. One particular afternoon I was a bit slow closing the window behind him and nearly had Momma Robin inside as well, so closely had she followed him.

I eventually discovered that my well-mannered friend lived several houses away, just up the street, and had a regular route. Needless to say, we all, his extended neighbourhood-family, became quite friendly, comparing notes and sharing anecdotes about our hobo's travels, and his likes and dislikes.

I was sad to leave our little circle when I moved away from the neighbourhood several years later. My time there would have been quite lonely without my gentle knight of the road, and he certainly enriched all our lives in bringing us together.

My mother had always loved cats as well. Our home was graced with a procession of characters, mostly of the Siamese persuasion. From her first kitten, my mother was smitten with the graceful, blue-eyed fiends, and our house was never the same.

She started off with a delicate, seal-point queen-to-be who she promptly named Pit-ti Singh. Unfortunately, her Philistine children refused to call her anything but Sing-sing, which was exactly what she did. Yowl-yell would have been closer to the facts, but we knew the limits of our mother's patience with our interpretation of her precious one's cries...and, in all fairness, Sing-sing's voice was rather small and quite melodious, compared to most of her tribe.

We did hear her in full cry during her first heat, and she survived to have a second one, only by dint of Mother's persuasive powers. She promised our father that she would find a suitable male and have her bred immediately she came into season again.

The intended male arrived as promised, an experienced and majestic specimen of cat-daddy potential. C.N., so named because he had been sent to the breeder via the Canadian National Railway, was not only beautiful, he had a lovely and loving personality, and spent many hours crooning to his bashful bride-to-be.

The little wretch took one look at her suitor, hissed loudly, and hid under the comforter on my parents bed, refusing to come out for three days. Finally C.N.'s owner came to retrieve him saying philosophically, "Well, these things do happen sometimes."

After that disastrous first attempt, Mother consulted with the accommodating breeder, and struck a bargain. She procured a male offspring of C.N. and offered him to 'Her Choosiness' in the guise of a little kitten seeking a friend.

Sing-sing retalliated by terrorizing the poor mite for the first two weeks of his life with us. She did eventually settle down and did eventually mate with him - everywhere and in front of everyone. She seemed bent on showing my mother that, indeed, she would mate, but only with the right male, thank you very much.

Now, the only real problem with the new dynamic duo was to find a name for Sing-sing's inamorato. Mother wanted to call him R.C.N., a very clever marriage of his father's name with a tribute to our father's occupation - he was then a newly minted officer in the Royal Canadian Navy.

To our mother's chagrin, we all balked at the name. She was quite miffed until we pointed out that we were not about to use that name to call the kitty - and certainly not in public. Really! Can you imagine the neighbours convulsed in laughter hearing us yell out the door, "Here, R.C.N., here kitty, here, R.C., R.C., R.C."

Once we demonstrated this several times, repeating the diminutive form of his name, our mother allowed as perhaps we might seek a better name, clever though her suggestion had been. Eventually she came up with Han Suah, meaning 'chip off the old block'. I ask you - who creates these names? The Philistines immediately shortened it to Hank, and so he was called.

Hank and Sing-sing went on to produce five beautiful kittens.

The night of the great event, in the manner of all divas, Sing-sing roamed the house 'singing' loudly, finally seeking out the dark recesses of my parents closet. This would be the place. Hank fetched my father, who immediately fetched the prepared nesting box and shooed us away to give them some peace.

At first, they tried to keep Hank out, having read all the right cat books which contained horror stories of what a jealous male could do to the new born kittens. Fortunately, Hank had not read the same books. He just did what came naturally to him.

Sing-sing struggled for some time to give birth but as the first kitten began to emerge, it became quickly apparent something was wrong. Eventually she and Hank allowed my father assist, pulling gently and carefully to help her expel the tiny, mal-formed body. It never drew breath.

Hank couldn't have been a more loving mate. He licked the poor small body and carried it out of the box to my father, and then went back to Sing-sing to help with the next birth, climbing in the box with her. Chirring his encouragement, he welcomed each new arrival, and, when she tired near the end, he helped her chew the cord and wash the last two newcomers clean.

The breeder arrived when they were eight weeks old and departed with her choice of the remaining five, and our little managery was reduced to two adults and four kittens. My father decreed that six cats were enough for any household. We were due for a move to another base (a roughly bi-annual event) and neither our parent's nerves nor stamina could cope with the idea of another litter, so Hank and Sing-sing's reproductive abilities were sharply curtailed.

My life was greatly enriched by our small, furry extended family, for so they were. We enjoyed them and their antics for many years.

My current companion is a diminutive, tri-color tabby. Weighing in at only four and a half pounds, Sarge, nevertheless, rules this roost with an iron paw. The dog knows very clearly who is in charge here.

I am not sure how Sarge came by her name, but I have never heard a more appropriate sobriquet. Her voice is as commanding as her presence, and she rarely speaks at less than full volume. She is one of, if not the loudest cat I have ever known and, let me tell you, some of the Siamese friends I have served over the years were fairly amazing vocalizers.

Sarge puts them all to shame. True to her name-sakes the world over, her Master Sergeant's, parade-ground bellow can be heard the length of the neighbourhood. She does not leave any doubt in your mind that she needs your full, undivided attention - right now.

In all fairness though, her dainty pat-pats on the cheek and encouraging 'chirrup' when she comes to snuggle at three in the morning are most endearing. Let's face it. What cat person could resist a nose kiss or the affectionate rasp of a tongue across your shrinking eyelid?

Legends abound about cats in all their myriad varieties and incarnations, and for good reason. They are fascinating creatures, capable of inspiring great loyalty and affection while remaining oh-so-slightly aloof from it all. Their composure can be awe-inspiring, their insousciance is legend. Charming, alluring, mysterious.

If I get to come back, I want to come back as my cat...

I would like to extend my gratitude to those loving cat fans who posted such beautiful images. I was able to find some that are so close to my own kitties, it is almost like replacing those long-lost photos. The three final images, though, are actual pictures of the little despot who currently rules my world.