There’s no doubt Thurston is the best cat on China Lake.

He guards the house: When any unwelcomed noise arises, he comes to a full stop, ears aimed in that direction, to alert us.

And he provides entertainment when things are slow — tearing up and down the stairs, perching in windows to stare down ducks, loons and crows, and standing watch at the back of the washing machine, scouting for mice.

Thurston is a big orange cat with a white bib and paws. He turned 8 in June.

While seemingly ferocious, he really is a scaredy-cat, hightailing it up the stairs when there’s a knock at the door. He hides under a bed and doesn’t reappear until a visitor, or the last of several, has exited the premises.

When we have overnight company, which we have every summer, he makes himself scarce. My old college friends and their spouses come for a week each August and Thurston won’t greet them until about the second evening, sauntering down from his hiding place to eat. And then he peruses the table, curling his tail around every guest as if they are his best friends.

He suddenly seems to remember who they are — that they aren’t the monstrous humans he imagined on Day 1; instead, they are kind, speak to him in baby voices, bring him cat toys and feed him treats, something even we don’t do. For the rest of the week, they become his best friends.

Thurston is smart. He knows the sound of a yogurt drink being shaken in its bottle before it is opened, or a foil cover being torn off a single-serving container. He races to whomever holds the bottle or cup and waits for the contents to be consumed before licking up the residuals.

Thurston is a joy to be around, although my husband, Phil, laments his long absences when he sleeps most of the day.

“Is something wrong with him?” he asks.

“No, Phil,” I reply every time, “Cats sleep most of their lives. It’s just what they do.”

As much as Thurston is an engaging companion to us both and we continue to be amazed that this bundle of orange fur that purrs us to sleep each night knows he is part of our family and doesn’t leave, there is something missing.

That something, we know, is his former housemate, Bitsy, our little gray and black coon cat who died a year ago this month at 17.

When Bitsy was here, there was double the entertainment, double the purring, double the love.

It wasn’t that way in the beginning. When we brought Thurston to camp directly from the animal shelter as a tiny, blue-eyed kitten eight summers ago, Bitsy would have nothing to do with him. He, on the other hand, loved her right off and didn’t understand why she shunned his invitations to play and cuddle like his biological mother did.

Several months prior, Bitsy’s litter mate, Pip, our sleek black cat with yellow eyes, died of cancer. We were bereft and thought Bitsy would be too. Much to our surprise, it was the opposite. She loved being the queen bee and getting all our attention.

So when Thurston came along, she was not happy. It took weeks, perhaps months, for her to acclimate to another feline on board. When at camp, we have never let our cats out as there are too many dangers lurking, including bald eagles, but in Waterville we do, although we ensure they are in before dark.

As time went on, Bitsy became protective of Thurston, watching his every move as he navigated his way around a new world — our lawns and backyard, the flower and vegetable gardens and the next-door neighbor’s backyard jungle of trees, bushes and vines. If he strayed toward the road, she would rein him in.

Thurston grew to be larger than Bitsy. They became companions against the fierce outdoor world, following each other around and lounging on the deck in the sun and shade together, racing inside when there was a thunderstorm. They were equals.

It has taken a year to not feel the sting of loss when we talk about Bitsy or look at photos of her. Maybe it is time to adopt a kitten who needs a home — and a brother like Thurston?

We shall see. The thought does stir a sense of adventure. And it would be interesting to see if Thurston accepts or rejects her. Yes, we’ve decided it must be a her.

Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter 37 years. Her columns appear here Sundays. She is the author of the book “Comfort is an Old Barn,” a collection of her curated columns, published in 2023 by Islandport Press. She may be reached at [email protected]. For previous Reporting Aside columns, go to centralmaine.com