It's almost midnight. The cat is glaring at me through the window again. Out in the kitchen I can hear the incessant drumroll of Kitty's fingernails rhythmically tapping on the table, demanding an explanation. I don't even know where to start.

I have nurtured a great dislike for the cat for a long time. Distinctively marked, she has this disconcerting habit of leaping onto the outside window sill next to my chair and glaring at me with unblinking yellow eyes as I try to relax, drink coffee and read the paper in my den. This is my space! In the evening she does the same thing. I can't stand those accusatory eyes boring into my innocent soul.

I took off at noon to prepare for the local Executive Rat Race. I was the race director, and my boss had given me a stern admonition to uphold the image of his organization. I had decided to abandon the cat at the entrance of a children's daycamp on the way to the race and rid myself of those glaring eyes forever. I figured some kid would take her home, which was a more humane fate than being tossed over a bridge in a burlap bag. I would allow Kitty to draw her own conclusions about the cat's disappearance. After gently tossing her out of the window of my immaculately maintained 1967 Mercury Cougar convertible I winced at the volume of fur covering the seat. Well, loose cat hair was one other headache that I had just eliminated forever.

As I vigorously vacuumed the interior at a local service station I suddenly observed Kitty's brand new Timex Ironman 100 lap watch laying on the console. Almost simultaneously with this discovery, the watch leaped from its resting position into the roaring mouth of the vacuum cleaner. I yanked the tube out of the car and began wildly swinging it around and around it over my head, hoping the centrifugal force would overcome the suction and spew the watch out. I could hear the watch rattling around inside, inexorably moving forward to the whining machine. I panicked and began whipping the tube on the asphalt while trying to choke it, but all to no avail. In the midst of all this activity I saw my boss drive by with a quizzical expression stamped on his face.

At the race one of the women had decided to dress in rather odd attire. I guess that since that was advertised as a rat race she thought it would be appropriate to dress as some sort of cat. Leona was clad in a minimalist leopard skin jogbra with matching thong worn over black bunhuggers. Her ensemble included Brooks Cheetahs, whose bright yellow countenance and black stripe complemented the colors in her animal skin outfit, cat ears protruding from her tawny mane, and a black and yellow polka dotted tail. Rather garish, I thought, she belongs in the zoo! Needless to say, she drew a lot of attention.

Not surprising. Leona had a certain reputation as a man-eater. More men had been tempted by her charms than I could track, and she had ruined many relationships. Wives and SO's in particular had a deep suspicion of her motives anytime she socialized with another man even in a business setting. And so it was that I found myself alone with Leona at the conclusion of the awards ceremony. She had lapped down quite a bit of beer and was in no condition to drive. She asked me to take her home. I was in a quandary. Kitty would kill me if she suspected I had been close to Leone for any reason, yet I could

"Maybe it fell under the seat," she answered.   I started down the trail.
"Ohhh, No!" The plaintive wail raised the hair on the back of my neck. Kitty was holding up the other Cheetah. Criminey! I dashed back to the car.

"Look, nothing happened with Leona," I assured her, "I can explain everything."

"What's this about Leona?" Kitty looked at me. "I can't find my other new shoe.

" I didn't know what to say, so I just started running. I ran sixteen miles back to the house. Unfortunately, I took the car key with me. A taxi was pulling out of the driveway when I arrived, and Kitty was walking toward the door. Our neighbor called out, "Kitty, I've got your cat. Ronnie saw her "JUMP" out of Jim's car over at the Tiger Tot daycamp and brought her back to you."

Meanwhile, I've crept through the back door. It's almost midnight. The cat is glaring at me through the window again. Out in the kitchen I can hear the incessant drumroll of Kitty's fingernails rhythmically tapping on the table, demanding an explanation. I don't even know where to start