I think I'm confusing her with Lassie

As my son-in-law would say of himself: "I'm not that kind of cat lady."

I do have a sweatshirt with a big black cat saying "I am the boss."

I did paint my parents' cat's face on a sweatshirt for my dad ("commissioned" by my mother).

I do talk to our white calico -- using any and all of her names: Corey (short for "Encore," because she replaced Snore, the kids' first cat after that tiger she got hit by a car); Miss Kins and Kins (for devotees of single-syllable simplicity).

And I do think she's smarter than the average bear.

But I have no calendars, mugs or wall hangings (except the one my stepdaughter gave me almost 25 years ago).

Yet adherence to those parameters hasn't stopped me from being impressed by this cat from time to time, such as:

When, at 2 a.m., I see her pacing atop our headboard bookcase, clearly trying to avoid landing on Fred or me when she descends. She manages it, too. Usually.

When she defies pontifications about cats having no memory. We know she's conditioned to remember many important things, like where the food, litter and door outside are. But, I was not prepared for her ability to hold a grudge. Fred handles much of Corey's care, but certain duties fall to me, including administering flea meds. I'm not sure what the big deal is, beyond the five seconds of being restrained, but Kins hates it. So much, in fact that earlier this month, she snubbed me for two days. TWO days. An hour or two, OK, but two days?

When she snuggles on my back or stomach just as I feel the need to turn over. She'll hold on as well as she can, shifting her weight as I shift mine. Then she has her TA-DA moment(or maybe I have mine). And we both fall back to sleep in our new positions.

Such precociousness must have lulled me into thinking I was dealing with Einstein: The Encore. The other morning, as I sat at my desk in the dining room, she began meowing relentlessly. As usual, I said "OK, show me what you need," and she led me to the food dish (already full, but with "nothing good"); the closed cellar door (the litter pan's down there); or the kitchen door (when she wants to see just how cold it is outside).

Not this time. We made our little trek but she kept walking and meowing, obviously afraid I'd quit following if she led me somewhere new. So, out in the front hallway we went, and she started up the stairs, sticking her furry face through the spindles to make sure I was still moving. So, when she started climbing again, I stopped, curious what she'd do.

She stopped. And stared. Until I resumed following her.

Was Timmy stuck in the cistern? No, we tore that down.

Was the second floor on fire? I sniffed. No.

So, I followed her into the den-ish type room to the left, fearful she was heading for the door to the squirrel haven we call an attic.

Nope.

She stopped and sat on the furnace register next to the ironing board.

For this I climbed the stairs?

When I turned to leave she was back on the go, into our bedroom. Maybe she was just letting me know where she was in case I needed her? Whatever.

Enough was enough. I went back down to the computer.

And I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit that the rest of the day did not pass without me wondering once or twice if cats can detect radon. I guess I won't know unless I pass out and wake to her dragging me out the door by my hair.

I like you a lot, but what's your name again?

Some of you who were regular readers of my newspaper column may remember this issue, but it seems to have gotten worse -- and funnier at the same time.

I used to pooh-pooh the concept of "visual learner" and whatever other kinds there are (oral? aural? tactile? unwilling?) because I didn't know what the heck it meant. Until the novelty of calling people by the wrong name wore off.

I'd been mixing up the names of two reporters I'd hired within a week of one another. Even though only Jim had started, I was already calling him Mike. So, I decided to post Jim's name on my door frame, which I saw every time I looked up from my desk. It got a bit of harmless attention, but it worked. SO, then I did the same with "Mike" when he started work two weeks later. Problem solved.

But it has cropped up again, under more precarious circumstances. Over the weekend, my son brought home his girlfriend, Shannon, for the second time. We like her, she likes us, and everything is right with the world.

Except, I keep wanting to call her Amanda.

Apparently, my subconscious thinks she looks like an Amanda. I'm blaming my subconscious, because I don't know any Amandas that she looks like; and, at the moment, I can't think of an Amanda that I know well enough to have lurking anywhere in my gray matter. (TV addicts from the 1960s may be figuring this out for themselves, but the first time I heard the name Amanda was on Dr. Bellows' wife on "I Dream of Jeannie." And she wasn't anyone you wanted lurking anywhere, as I recall.)

When the name Samantha almost fell out of my mouth ("Bewitched" anyone?) last weekend, I knew I needed a good dose of self-help. I had to put an end to those moments where I've sat gape-mouthed looking at ... um ... Shannon, fearful of what name would come out if I spoke.

So, this morning I reverted to my tried-and-true "visual learner's" trick.

In Shannon's case, a single doorway won't do it, because I'm home and moving from room to room. So, there are six copies of "Shannon" hanging around: on the peg board above the stove; from the shelf above the TV; from the top of my desk; below the dining room mirror; above the bathroom mirror; and ... um ... let me go look. Oh, yeah, at the top of the kitchen door.

I'm optimistic this will work.

If it does, I'll move on to my kids. My subconscious lately has me calling them by my younger brother and sister's names. I realize when I do it (thank heavens); and it may happen because my kids are adults now, so my mind is connecting them with the younger adults in the family I grew up in.

I hope that's it. I hope it's not that I'm going nuts.

The play of the game ...

It's 5:52 the morning after the Super Bowl, and I've been up for more than an hour, having finally given in to clock-watching that began around 1. When the cat cried -- a fairly rare occurrence -- at 4:30, enough was enough.

I wish I could attribute such sleep deprivation to Tracy Porter's phenomenal interception and touchdown. But that would do little to explain the last year or so. It's just life at 51.

Truth is, I did see the play and it was great. Or, at least I saw most of it. I'm a root-for-the-underdog kind of person, just like the president, so I was marginally more interested in this year's Super Bowl. Plus, I've actually been to New Orleans, so favoring the Saints over the Indianapolis Colts was a no-brainer for someone who has no brain for the gridiron.

Anyway, if I worked in an office, I knew I'd be talking today about having seen Porter run the field and score; but, I'd still be wishing I'd seen the whole thing.

I wish I'd seen the catch itself. I blame watching the game and doing online crossword puzzles at the same time. Something was going to get short shrift. I'd rather it had been the four-letter word for combustible heap.

But, I had a chance to set things right this morning when I turned on the computer and saw a story about Porter missing the game bus and why. Embedded in it was a link to the play, so I watched it. Over and over and over again. I kept missing it. Too many guys out there, too wide a shot. I narrowed my gaze, finally, to the area where Porter and the Colts' star Peyton Manning were, but I'll have to go back -- or to a different Web site -- if I want to see the ball actually touch his hands.

Not for anything, but what I really wanted to see embedded in that particular story were photos of the $40 haircut that made Porter miss the bus (overly dramatized, by the way; he caught the next one, just 30 minutes later).

The haircut apparently has SB44, the trophy and the Louisiana Super Dome shaved into it.

An aside ... Almost as surprising as Porter's play was the commercial that had Betty White muddied up -- seconds later it was Abe Vigoda lying there. Abe Vigoda, formerly of "Barney Miller."

I thought he was dead.

So, in case it was camera magic, I checked whosaliveandwhosdead.com, where I learned that three members of the cast have passed away, James Gregory, Ron Carey and Jack Soo.

Vigoda, by the way, will turn 89 next week.

Unless he makes a sudden move to the other column.