Winds howled, pushed and buffeted me across the quadrangle toward my apartment.  At one o'clock in the morning, the wind-chill reached minus 20 degrees Celsius. 

That's cold for southern Sweden. 

I wrapped my parka closer around my body, pulled the hood tighter, and leaned into the wind.  I‘d be snuggled, under a feathered comforter, in 10 minutes.

Before the film club’s discussion ended, my Swedish friends plied me with a couple shots of vodka.  “For the road”, they said.  Therefore, oblivious to the cold I continued through the darkness.

“Maa-woow”!  

"What the devil’s that," I shouted.

The wail, so shrill, piercing, paralyzed my legs.  Its intensity deafened the moan of the winds, and caused the skin on my back and neck to tightened.  I poked my head out of the hood.  A street lamp illuminated the path.  I looked forward and to the sides.  The path, edged with tangled leafless bushes, was empty.  Nothing around, only the wind.

I stepped forward, but felt a slight pressure against my left foot.  There lying next to my shoe, an emaciated bundle of threadbare fur in the shape of a kitten not more than a couple of months old.  Its large black eyes stared up.  Again it tried to muster enough energy to send another soul-wrenching shriek.  But, what came out sounded like leaves scratching the air. 

“Go home.  You're going to freeze," I said, hoping it would leave.  I didn’t want to feel guilty tomorrow when I found this bundle of fur frozen. 

The kitten rubbed against my shoe and fell over. 

I knew it would not survive in the cold, and maybe, not even if I took it home. 

It would not leave.  Just stared up at me, trying to send another meow.

I bent over, picked up the little fur ball, and stuck it under my parka.

We reached my apartment.  The kitten warmed, tried to walk, but instead it wobbled about, uncontrolled. 

"You’re starving," I announced, and devised some cat food from crushed peanut butter cookies and milk.  

The little thing inhaled the gooey paste, but it didn’t sit well.

After a few minutes of fur licking, while I cleaned the floor, he noticed the remains of the concoction I made, and polished it off, curled onto a pillow, and fell asleep. 

The next morning I found the little refugee coiled on the bed, under the comforter, just behind my knee.  When I arose, he arched his back and stretched.  Although puny and wasted, this charcoal-colored kitten with a little white on his face and feet became very special, because he possessed a unique crosier-like tail.  It was as if he could be hung by his tail from a clothes rack.  My Swedish friends considered the tail a sign of cat aristocracy.  So what I saved was an elite alley cat. 

I named him Bugsy after the lead character in the movie the film club discussed the night I found him. 

Bugsy and I lived together, while I completed my sabbatical in Sweden.  We became close friends.  When it came time to return to the U.S.A. and Huntsville, AL, Bugsy returned with me. To legalize his immigration, U.S. Customs required official certification from a Swedish International Veterinarian indicating that Bugsy was healthy and carried no diseases.   This accomplished, I bought a cat carrier and paid Delta Airlines $140 for his one-way ticket.  Bugsy and I then, flew across the Atlantic. 

After affirming, at the request of an U.S. Immigration Official at Kennedy International, that he could meow in English, Bugsy became an American cat.    

Nowadays, with his shepherd’s staff held high, Bugsy proudly patrols Wrensong, his estate.  Since that frozen night in Sweden, I have not heard him voiced another horrific meow.  It’s been ten years, since Bugsy’s great trans-Atlantic odyssey.  I wonder if he still remembers his homeland?

 If a logical or illogical habit needed to fulfill an individual’s daily destiny is not accomplished, then that individual’s psychy is disrupted.  This attribute is worse in cats, because they have a strong sense of independence.  Most times, the satisfaction of their habits are in the hands of their human masters.  They tolerate dependence, but it is not in their nature.

Bugsy, my cat, has a set of specific routines that start his day on the proper note.  If Bugsy’s needs are not met, he sulks all day and discounts everything, including his own shadow.

Since during the night Bugsy is confined to the kitchen and utility room, his first need is that the proper door is opened in the morning to allow him access to the rest of his domain.

We have a door in the kitchen that allows access into the dining room and one in the utility room that opens into the TV room.  The latter is Bugsy’s primary door, since his food, water and litter box are in the utility room. 

Routinely, Marian enters the kitchen each morning through the dining room door, prepares the tea and exits through the door she entered.  Bugsy, after Marian enters the kitchen, strolls into utility room and seats himself next to the door that opens into the TV room.  Stubbornly, Bugsy will continue to sit next to this door, even though he could easily exit the kitchen by going through the dining room.

Eventually, Bugsy will saunter into my bathroom.  It’s obvious he used the wrong door, because he discounts my presence.  It’s in my bathroom that he attempts to satisfy his second habit.  If successful, then his first disappointment is nullified. 

He climbs onto the water-spattered rim of the shower and meows loudly.  Entranced, he continues to meow without choking while he laps the water.  I have to ignore him during this time, because disturbing his ecstasy throws him into a major huff.  He then dashes from the bathroom and disappears. 

In an apathetic mood, Bugsy returns to the bedroom about the time I’m nearly dressed.  His attitude indicates that, up to now, his finicky desires have not been satisfied.  He seats himself in the middle of the room and glares at me.

It’s interesting how a cat can stare in total disregard.  At this moment, if he could talk, I bet he’d say “You have one more chance to make my day.  Let’s get on with it.”

Now it’s up to me to pull Bugsy out of his frump.  We’ll have to play Attack-the-Belt.  I can see he’s ready because his mood livens once I’ve put my pants on and zipped up my fly.  He knows I have to string a belt through the loops around my waist.  But, before I do, I have to let him attack the belt.

His body energizes while I slowly lift the sash off the bed.  Seated on floor he can’t see the strap, but he anticipates it being snaked around the bedspread.  He readies his stance to pounce.  I’m aware of his tautness, so I slowly slide the belt across the bed.  He jumps onto the bed and attacks the leather snake with passion. 

I don’t allow him to capture the belt.  I instead whip it around.  He dives, lunges, rolls.  When he’s on his back, I dangle the belt lively above his nose, while expressing the usual verbiage to encourage him to make the capture.  Bugsy paws and grabs at the belt.  He knows what needs to be done to allow capture; he has to vocalize a hissy, guttural roar.  Then I’ll allow him to grab the belt, rake it and chew it.  I continue to tease him for two more hissing bouts and then stopped.  He jumps off the bed and dashes toward the kitchen.  I find him sitting happily on the TV room side of the utility room door, his proper door, which is still unopened.  Once it is, all will be well with Bugsy and his day will be fine.