Mid 1970s. College days with select long weekends home. A class or two sacrificed for transportation time, mother's cooking, and of course, a bag of dirty clothes.

Different times, with voices now unheard.

"Sneakers want to catch a mouse?" My mother opened the utility room door and pulled the hanging string providing light.

Sneakers, 13 pounds of self-assured brown fur equally balanced on four white paws, stealthily entered the jungle of mops, brooms and golf clubs. This was the tiger's rite of passage...to hunt down elusive prey.

I had witnessed this ritual before and expected a rerun of the same outcome. After about a half hour in the small room, Sneakers will exit empty handed and saunter to his food dish by the refrigerator. Mom, string pulled again, will close the door behind him, and praise, "Good Sneakers. Good job."

After a snack, the proud hunter will nap, undeterred by a fruitless hunt.

Expecting this night to be no different, I sat down behind a TV tray strategically placed for superior viewing of Monday Night Football. Set before me was baked ham, a sweet potato topped in melting butter, and lima beans. Salad and glass of ice tea on the side.

After finishing the salad, laced with oil and vinegar, I set the bowl aside and began cutting the ham. On the screen, the Dolphin quarterback retreated to throw a pass downfield. To this day, I don't know if the pigskin found the intended receiver. My attention was intercepted by ear-jamming pandemonium from the utility room.

Golf clubs rattled, a broom handle hit the floor, and what could only be 13 pounds of brown predator caromed off cardboard boxes. Above this commotion, Sneaker's excitement was recognizable in short loud meows.

Then, silence. My befuddled stare toward the hallway entrance fixed on a sight just as remarkable today as it was at that moment.

Sneakers walked toward me, his mouth filled with small rodent. Every feline step was heavy with pride as our 'protector of the hearth' made his way into the living room. Six feet from my metal banquet table, Sneakers opened his jaw and dropped his grayish trophy on the living room's gold carpet. We both watched the mouse shudder twice before movement stopped. Sneakers slapped the body around a few times to insure finality.

I was as silent as the mouse.

Wide open cat eyes looked up at me and tail pounded impatiently on the carpet. He appeared to be demanding an answer to a question I was incapable of comprehending.

Confused, I had nothing to contribute to the situation.

A determined Sneakers would not accept my inaction. As if a prize winning retriever on the hunt, he gingerly picked up the mouse with his mouth and advanced on my location with unknown purpose.

Retreating, I sank further into my chair, not really ready for anything.

In a furry flash, all the quickness and agility honed by millions of years of cat evolution were mine to behold as Sneakers leapt onto the TV tray. No ham was disturbed, nor was a single drop of tea spilt, as four paws planted themselves among my dinner clutter.

"Sneakers," I blurted out in surprised.

Unfazed, Sneaker's calm answer to my panic was a gentle drop of the mouse to the right of a napkin, followed by a graceful flying return to the floor. Once again he sat on his haunches, with green eyes and tapping tail challenging me.

Truly, I was stumped at this defining moment in our pet-master relationship. Stalling for time, I meekly offered, "Thank you, Sneakers. Good job." Unexpectedly, Sneakers sprung to all fours, pranced over and rubbed up against my leg. With that feline "You're welcome" completed, he triumphantly paraded toward the kitchen and his dish.

My mother, not a fan of any rodent, met him with, "Really good job, Sneakers."

Several composing minutes later, on my way to the dumpster with brown body bag in hand, I pondered the object lesson presented me by Sneakers. Clearly, all a cat ever needs, in addition to food and drink, is recognition of his rightful lofty status from a fellow human.