By Maggi MillerSunday, October 28, 2007

Halloween and Austin have been intertwined for me ever since I arrived here in 1973, though I was long past the age of putting on a costume and asking for treats. I had even passed the teenage years when playing tricks had a special appeal.

But I discovered you're never too old for costumes or trick-or-treating here.

Though Sixth Street is the liveliest place to be on Halloween, the holiday is celebrated all over Austin. Besides, we're always looking for excuses to don costumes — witness Carnaval, Austin's answer to New Orleans' Mardi Gras; Eeyore's birthday; and the constant business at the Congress Avenue emporium Lucy in Disguise.

This story begins with Halloween 1994.

Our north university neighborhood offered goodies and scary music and elaborately carved pumpkins at almost every home. Hordes of children laughed, skipped down the sidewalks and screamed with glee.

Our 7-year-old daughter, Belle, was eager to take part. She was dressed as an acrobatic dancer, complete with feathery headdress, pastel leotard and tights that I had embellished with sequins.

As we left the house, our 8-month-old kitten, Friskie, began to walk with us, as was his habit. He was a well-behaved companion who always went back home when bored, and we soon quit paying attention to him. After we had covered the neighborhood, we headed home to sample some of the loot before calling it a night.

I no longer remember whether I assumed Friskie had returned or I just forgot about him. Our older girls had stayed at home, dispensing candy, but I never thought to ask about Friskie.

In any case, he did not turn up in the morning when we began to call for him, nor did he come straggling in during the day. Neighbors were quick to tell us horror stories about cats that go missing on Halloween, and my husband and I dreaded telling Belle that Friskie might be gone for good.

When we finally broke the news, her weeping was as terrible as we had feared. That evening, we came up with a plan to track him down.

We posted fliers all over Hemphill Park and at Wheatsville Co-op.

We went door-to-door for blocks to inquire whether anyone had seen our orange-and-white kitten.

We finally placed an advertisement in the newspaper and offered a reward.

An unexpected side of Austin revealed itself to us as we began to get phone calls from all over town. People reported having found our cat from as far away as San Leanna.

Each time we got a report, we piled in the car to go check. We found aged calico cats, cats with no white at all, cats with no orange at all, and kittens of all colors.

The most common response we got when we said, "No, that's not our cat," was "Well, would you like to have this one anyway?"

We were pretty discouraged. A couple of weeks passed with no sign of Friskie.

One evening at dinnertime, the phone rang. I answered and a man asked me if we had lost our cat. When I said yes, he replied, "Well, I might have found it."

I was pretty skeptical at that point. He asked whether I could describe Friskie's collar — if not, he was prepared to keep the cat because he and his friends had grown fond of it. When the man seemed satisfied with my description, I wondered if this cat was really Friskie after all.

His address was only a few blocks away, near the University of Texas campus. I bundled Belle into her puffy pink satin jacket and told her we were taking a walk. As we neared the address, I realized we were going to the Delta Tau Delta fraternity house.

Several young men were out in the yard, and they murmured, "Aww," when they saw a little girl in their midst. One came forward and asked if we were looking for a cat. Then he led us inside where the housemother had been caring for a stray kitten that had appeared the day after Halloween.

Sure, enough, he was our Friskie.

A tearful reunion ensued, and I asked who should get the reward.

They all jumped in at once to say they would not accept any money. They had enjoyed our kitten, but as soon as one of the fraternity brothers spotted the ad in the paper, they knew it was our missing cat.

We gathered up our furry friend, announcing he would not be allowed out on Halloween ever again.

Then the housemother asked that we do just one favor for the young men, and we immediately agreed.

From that day forward, we pledged that if we ever heard anyone disparage a Greek organization, we would tell how the Delta Tau Deltas found, saved and returned our daughter's cat — and how, thanks to the fraternity boys, a sad Halloween was transformed into a happy Thanksgiving and Christmas, all rolled into one.

Maggi Miller works for a publishing company and lives in the Travis Country neighborhood in southwest Austin with her husband, Dan Robertson.

Tales of the City

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