Cats are a mystery to me. A bigger mystery was why they wanted to hang out near my dog.

Recent changes to Washington County's animal control ordinance reminded me of some local residents I met years ago.

The changes to which I refer involve the definition of "community cats" and protections for the people who, well, protect them.

I lived for a long time in a delightful cottage near City Park, which is home to all manner of flora and fauna. My neighborhood had rather a large squirrel population (as does my current neighborhood), and it was not at all unusual to look out the window and and see a whole family of ducks or geese waddling up the street — the fact that Virginia Avenue separated my street from the park notwithstanding.

Back then, there were a number of feral, er, community cats that also called the park and its environs home. They would frequently find their way to our property, where they might perch on our porch furniture or climb into the backyard or just hang on the front stoop or find some other way to send The Dog Grendel into orbit.

Some of us are cat people. Some of us are dog people. Some of us love both. Some of us like neither. My younger niece begged for a cat when she was little, and I think her mother might have acquiesced. But my brother was adamantly against it. Clearly I couldn't get her a cat, so I bought her a copy of "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats." A poor substitute, I'll grant. But I digress.

Unlike our kindhearted community cat caregivers, I did not feed our "community cats" or purposely give them shelter — not because I'm unkind, but because I didn't want to attract them to the house out of respect for the aforementioned Dog Grendel. She was, after all, the official resident.

Nevertheless, something apparently attracted them to our house, because they seemed to spend an awful lot of time there.

One was a particularly impractical black cat, who would loiter in the most inconvenient spots and glare at you with steely eyes if you dared to suggest he remove himself. I didn't mind him so much; he was a fairly handsome little fellow and wasn't causing any real harm. The Dog Grendel, on the other hand, wasn't quite so keen.

Now you have to understand that Grendel was an excitable little cur, and whenever some strange being approached the house she would emit a howl that would make the heavens rock and then rush the door if I were bold enough to open it.

Usually this was not really a bad thing.

Unless of course there was a good reason for someone to be at the door.

So whenever I knew someone was coming, I would corral her somewhere so she couldn't get anywhere near the door. And that, as it turned out, was a really good thing.

One Halloween night, I kid you not, I had Grendel safely ensconced as the annual parade of masked tots arrived in search of a sugar fix. As I greeted one particular group of trick-or-treaters, I noticed some small creature maneuvering itself to the front of the pack.

In pranced our little black community cat, just as if he owned the place, sniffing at me and strutting straight to the fireplace, where he proceeded to stretch out — with apparent plans to settle in for the night.

Well, this would never do. Grendel's disembodied shrieks were already echoing through the house because she'd heard the kids at the door and was miffed that she wasn't part of the welcoming committee. I could only imagine her reaction if she saw Mr. Mistoffelees reposing in her spot by the fire, and it wasn't pretty.

But it was Halloween night and he was a black cat, and I'd heard the stories about cat-nappers on Halloween. I couldn't keep him in the house, so I shooed him out the back door and into our backyard with the high fence, hoping he'd stick around there and stay safe, as he often did anyway, until morning.

He curled up on the back porch and got through the night just fine, and kept hanging around thereafter.

Watching the eclipse from University Plaza was a heavenly thing

He wasn't the only one.

I pulled into the driveway after work one evening to find several neighbors gathered in a corner flowerbed behind the house. I was a little startled by this sight, and I'm sure the confusion was evident in my face as I closed the garage door and walked through the gate.

And then one of them explained that there was a cat under the large holly bush, and said cat had given birth to several kittens there, and would I mind if they took the cat and the kittens to care for them?

I thought about The Dog Grendel inside and whispered a quick prayer of thanks that the neighbors found the kittens before she did.

"Of course you can take them," I said, hoping the relief wasn't too obvious. "By all means."

And this, boys and girls, is why we need the kindhearted souls who properly care for all the furry prodigals who exist by no fault of their own, and are only trying to get by. Just like the rest of us.

This article originally appeared on The Herald-Mail: Once they were strays. Now they're 'community cats.' Tammy's met a few