It was only the tiniest of growls, but I heard it distinctly as I walked through the bedroom. I looked around, and saw only my little brown bear, drawn up as close to the headboard as he could get, hiding something behind him. When I looked closer, I realized it was his friend Bergdohle, the Alpine blackbird.

"What's the matter, Griz?" I asked, almost forgetting to make sure no one would hear me talking to a couple of stuffed polyester toys.

"Those cats," the bear replied, his scowl darker than usual. "What in the world were you thinking of, bringing those cats into this house?"

"Gim and Chica?" I said. "They're staying with us for a while, Griz. Where's your sense of hospitality? They're not bothering you."

"You think not?" he snarled, his gaze becoming even fiercer. "That big one she was stalking Bergdohle. If I hadn't been here to protect him..."

"Oh, Griz, you are silly. Chica wouldn't " But I stopped. Maybe she would.

Chica and Gim are our daughter Jean's cats. They've been her entire family for about 10 years, her very first acquisitions once she had her own apartment. Veteran travelers, they rode with her from Virginia to Fresno to Juneau and back to Virginia, before coming to Georgia to stay with us.

Jean, you see, is in the process of acquiring a human family, and one of her future children is allergic to cats. It's a problem we're hoping will be solved by allergy shots and drastic grooming and vacuuming, but until all that is worked out, we agreed to keep the animals here.

Chica means "little girl." She's a girl, but not little. Dave weighed her the other day: 15 pounds. When she rolls onto her back, she looks like a regulation-sized NFL football in a dark tabby cat-suit, legs poking out from where the corners would be if a football had corners.

Gim's name is more enigmatic, short for "Gimbal," a method of hanging lanterns or compasses in a boat so that they remain level no matter how the boat tips. Gim appears as big as Chica because his luxuriant red coat adds at least another eight inches to his diameter, yet he is half her weight and can land on a cluttered desk without disturbing a paper clip.

Peaches, our diminutive elderly colorpoint (a fancy name for a really hairy cat with Siamese markings), studiously ignores the visitors. Deaf, he does not hear Chica's throaty growls, and pays little attention unless the two big cats are playing a game of chase on the curved stairway.

Then he watches from Dave's lap, until amazement yields to boredom, and he dozes off again, his purr drowning out the sound of eight paws pounding the carpet.

What gave ME pause, when Griz suggested that Chica had threatened Bergdohle, was a story Jean told us last winter. She kept bird feeders outside her bedroom window for the amusement of the cats, whose days were sometimes long and lonely while she worked.

One evening she came home and discovered to her horror that the cats were batting a thoroughly dead junco around the living room. She found no doors or windows open except for a half-inch crack under the bedroom window to admit fresh air.

Unwilling to believe it had also admitted a bird, she finally concluded that Chica incredibly fast for her size, and very patient had sat perfectly still with paw under window until the unwitting bird landed there, and she swatted and dragged him into the house.

(Dave says the story conjures for him the opening scene of a Sidney Greenstreet movie he saw decades ago. With a tender gesture sharply contrasting with his hulking persona, Greenstreet puts birdseed on his windowsill, then waits quietly, window open, until a bird alights. The villain smacks the bird with a lightning-fast fly swatter, picks it up by its tail-feathers, and fastidiously presents it to his waiting cat.)

"Griz," I tried to reassure my little friend, "I know you don't like me to remind you, but you and Bergdohle are toys. Cats are attracted by quick movements or yummy smells. You have neither. It's sweet of you to try to protect "

"Come over here a minute," Griz commanded. "Lean down. Look real closely at my nose. Do you see where even your efforts at embroidery failed to make my nose look like it did when I was new? Do you remember what happened to my nose?"

"Oh yes, very well," I replied. Our old Irish setter, Abbie, got jealous when she saw me fussing over my new Christmas present. "Funny. That's the only time I can ever remember her snapping "

"No, it was NOT funny. And if you think I'm going to let one of those furball-upchuckers take a swipe at my pal here "

"Not to worry, Griz. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I haven't bought a turkey. Here, let's see how fat Bergdohle is."

With a strangled scream, the little bear actually turned pale.

"Just kidding, honey, just kidding!" I laughed. "I'll put Bergy back on the bookcase where he belongs. He'll be safe there, and you can sit here and adjust your attitude toward our guests.

"It's Thanksgiving, after all, a time to reflect on our blessings. You've certainly had your share: a warm home and a cozy comforter to snuggle under at night. These two guys would be homeless if we hadn't taken them in. Imagine how confused they must be, with strangers, in a strange house. Let's see a little hospitality."

I moved the fuzzy blackbird and straightened Griz's bow. He was still frowning when I left the room, but the next time I came in, he was looking almost benevolent.

Across his feet, Chica lay stretched indolently on her back, sound asleep in the afternoon sun.

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