It's almost midnight. The cat is glaring at me through the window again. Out in the kitchen I can hear the incessant drum roll 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 cannot 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 day camp 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 woman had decided to dress in rather odd attire. I guess that since it was advertised as a rat race she thought it would be appropriate to dress as some sort of cat. Leone was clad in a minimalist leopard skin jog bra with matching thong worn over black bun huggers. Her ensemble included Brooks Cheetahs, whose bright yellow countenance and black stripe complimented the colors in her animal skin outfit, cat ears protruding from her tawny mane, and a black and yellow polka dot tail. Rather garish, I thought, she belongs in the zoo! Naturally, she drew a lot of attention.

Not surprising, Leone had a certain reputation as a man-eater. Her charms had tempted more men than I could track, and she had ruined many relationships. Wives in particular had a deep suspicion of her motives anytime she socialized with another man even in a business setting.

So it was that I found myself alone with Leone 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 hardly loose this inebriated woman on the roads. As a responsible citizen, I decided to drive Leone home to keep her from behind the wheel. Kitty would never know anything about it.

Leone climbed in the front seat and immediately took off her brand-new Cheetahs. I noticed that she had printed her name in indelible ink along the medial post, along with the date. She told me that she had seen a runner do that at the store, but these shoes were killing her. She had not worn any socks, and obviously knew very little about running shoes. The fact that they generally ran a half size small had been lost on her, and she paid for it with some gruesome blisters during her first outing.

I dropped her off in the driveway, and she stumbled to her door laden with her gym bag and briefcase. I was in a hurry since Kitty and I had an evening run planned and I did not want to be late. You have to understand Kitty. She is serious about the running social scene. She is vain at times, and somewhat of an exhibitionist. She loves to wear color-coordinated running outfits and dazzle the onlookers with her well-put-together look. We usually drove to the trail, then I would put in an extra two miles before turning around, then attempt to catch her before we got to the car. This way I could get in eight miles to her four. She would join other runners at her pace for company.

She was excited. Her newest order from RoadRunner Sports had just arrived, and I knew that she could not wait to show off her new togs. She was wearing older warm-ups and an older pair of Puma Cells, but I knew that underneath the exterior was a brilliant combination that could awaken Rip Van Winkle. She would wait in the car while I changed because it precluded my dabbling around.

It was a beautiful evening and we rolled the windows down to enjoy the fresh air. Kitty was in a talkative mood. A new order always did that. As we traded the day's news, I noted with horror the radioactive glow of a brilliant yellow mesh from a Cheetah peeking out from under the passenger seat. Leone's shoe! I knew it had her name on the side. What if Kitty found it? I was a single downward glance from becoming burnt toast.

Kitty had her eyes on a new Jaguar for ages. We approached the local Jaguar dealership on the right, and I developed an immediate contingency plan. I waved in the general direction of a silver Jag and asked, "What do you think of that car?" As she turned her head away from me, I surreptitiously reached down and with a single motion tossed the incriminating evidence out of my window. It landed in front of an oncoming Mack truck, and immediately disappeared under eighteen wheels of an angry bulldog.

Relieved, I drove onto the trail head. It was crowded with people, which was right up Kitty's alley. I was ready to run, while Kitty went through her ritual. She swung her arms, reached to the sky, then stripped down to her newest eye-catching ensemble, a topaz top with black trim perfectly matched with black tights with golden diagonal parallelograms accenting the graceful curves of her legs. Next, I knew, she would lace up her newest pair of shoes, and off she would go.

"Jim," she called out, "where's my watch? I know I left on the console." My heart stopped ticking for a second.

"Could it be back at the house?" I volunteered.

"Maybe it fell under the seat," she answered. I started down the trail.

"Oh, 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 Leone," I assured her, "I can explain everything."

"What's this about Leone?" Kitty looked at me. "I cannot find my other new shoe."

I did not 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 have got your cat. Ronnie saw her "JUMP" out of Jim's car over at the Tiger Tot day camp and brought her back to you." Meanwhile, I crept in the back door.

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