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.