You could call it men's intuition, but you'd be wrong. I just know that Mom usually goes to bed about 7 or 8 p.m. to listen to her favorite liberal talk radio shows, so 9 p.m. is quite a bit past her normal bedtime.

We had some dinner guests and I was just about ready to dig into my dessert when the phone rang.

She didn't even take the time to echo my hello.

"Can you come over right away?!" she exclaimed.

My mind started racing. Was it a prowler? Was the house on fire? Had KGO's Bernie Ward taken the night off?

"What is it?" I blurted.

"There's a cat in my house," she said. "A big, black cat."

Relieved that it wasn't a cat burglar, I responded with a snicker, "A cat? How did a cat get into your house?"

"I don't know how, and it's not funny," she said sternly in that voice I hadn't heard since I was 13 years old and set the palm tree in the backyard on fire. "It's a big, black cat, and I think it's under my bed."

I got the message loud and clear. "I'll be right over," I dutifully replied.

My sister lives in Reno and my brother in Hollister--very conveniently too far away to help. And I figured the fire department only responded when cats were in trees, not under beds. So I guess it was up to me.

I excused myself from our dinner party and, leaving a beautiful plate of cream puffs on the table, took off for Mom's house 10 minutes away.

She was a nervous wreck when she greeted me in her robe and slippers on her front porch. As I bravely walked through the front door to heroically remove the savage beast from its hiding place, she said, "It's in the back bedroom, under the bed." Then she added very casually, "I think it's a cat ... but it might be a rat."

A rat! That changed the whole game plan. There's a big difference between a frightened pussy cat shivering under a bed and a cornered, snarling, black-eyed rat.

The initial plan was to prop the door open, rustle things a little and chase the little kitty out onto the porch. Dealing with a rat presented a whole new array of problems. First, they're ugly ... they're evil ... they're gross ... and I'm afraid of them. And did I mention they're ugly?

"Why do you say it might be a rat?" I asked, moving slowly back onto the porch.

"Well, I didn't really see it very well ... it was just a big dark shadow going down the hall," she said.

"Are you sure it wasn't a dust bunny?" I asked hopefully.

She just stared at me in that way moms never outgrow.

"Fine, so it might be a rat ... and it's as big as a cat," I said, now doing anything I could to stall. I said out loud, "Maybe firefighters do deal with cats under beds ... it's at least worth a phone call."

"Oh, just go in and get rid of it!" Mom demanded. "Did I raise a man or a mouse?"

"A mouse I could deal with!" I said. Her stern face turned to a look of disappointment.

"OK, fine," I said, "I'm going in." Armed with a broom, and ready to leap onto the dresser at a moment's notice, and walked softly into the back bedroom.

I stomped on the floor. Nothing. I stomped again. Nothing. Then I stomped with both feet and slapped the top of the bed. It bolted out from under the bed, down the hall and into the living room. It was big, it was black and it was ... a cat.

Relieved, I followed it into the front room. The bulge in the curtains behind the couch gave away its hiding place. So with a renewed sense of courage since I now knew my adversary, I approached with the broom, gave the curtains a little swat and watched the big ol' cat prance out into the darkness of the night.

Mom was appreciative, even if she didn't go so far as to call me her conquering hero.

Still, I learned a few lessons from the experience: if there's an animal under the bed and I'm not sure if it's a cat or a rat, I'm calling the fire department; if Mom calls at 9 o'clock on a Saturday night, I'm not answering the phone ... I'm calling my brother and telling him Mom wants to talk to him; and I'm never going leave the entire plate of cream puffs for my brother-in-law to devour if I have to leave the house suddenly ... I'm grabbing a couple for the road.

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.