For a while, I thought it was my fault, that I had been inebriated and had left the fridge door open. I mean, who hasn't been there? But then a few weeks later, it happened again. Then a month later, again. Don't get me wrong; I like a few adult beverages now and then, but not even Boris Yeltsin gets that banged up. Something else had to be going on. And it was.

A friend visiting from out of town crashed on my couch one night. In the morning, he confirmed my worst fears. "Oy," he said (he's British; that's how he talks), "I caught your cat opening the fridge last night."

Read it again. Let it marinate.

Despite the fact that she lacks opposable thumbs, she somehow figured out how to open the refrigerator door. They say prison inmates, given enough time, can figure out how to fashion a weapon from a bar of soap or a toothbrush or anything handy, really. They put MacGyver to shame. I guess all those days alone with nothing to do but roam the apartment led Rannie to use her time wisely. Why nap on the windowsill when you can hit the buffet?

Thereafter, I began barricading the refrigerator, alternating between the trash can and the ironing board. Still, the cat is nothing if not a hairy opportunist. She simply waited me out. More than once, I got sloppy and forgot to put a heavy object in front of the door. On each occasion, just like a big-league power hitter waiting for the right pitch, she made me pay. That is, she did what cats do: She pounced and helped herself to my groceries.

At my wit's end (which, considering how little of it I have, wasn't a hard point to reach), I consulted several veterinarians. I told them about the criminal mastermind living under my roof, about her insatiable appetite, and how, while she was growing fatter on my food, I was slowly wasting away in both mind and body. I didn't just ask for their help -- I begged them. (Ever seen a grown man cry in a veterinarian's office? They hadn't either.)