Let me just say it straight out: I'm a dog person. Mom said that from early on there wasn't a dog that I couldn't make friends with. (Sometimes she'd end sentences with prepositions, but she was still a good person.) I've owned five good dogs in my lifetime and happily tended to several others. All our dog-owning friends know that if they faced a family disaster at least Tippy or Chloe or Barney or Sam would have someone who'd not only look after them but would spoil them rotten with chew toys, doggie treats and long, long tummy skritches.

So why do we have two cats? We were invaded, that's why!

It began ever so innocently. My wife found a tiny black and white kitten mewing plaintively in the garage one weekend afternoon. Apparently it got separated from its mother and wandered away, eventually stopping to rest under the workbench. Carolyn brought it in the kitchen. "Isn't it cute?" she practically drawled as she stroked its slick fur, completely under the spell of the kitty's cuteness.

Benji, the dog we had then, was not taken in. "Daddy!" his little shoe-button eyes seemed to shout, "you're not going to let that thing in our house?" I assured him that it was only here until we could make other arrangements, like putting the kitten on the porch and letting its mother find it. Ben shook his head and went off, grumbling, to lay on the couch.

Things didn't go to plan, much to Ben's continual dismay. I knew we were in trouble when Carolyn wanted to name the kitten. "How about Scaredy?" I said. "It was meowing its head off outside. I think it's a scaredy cat." Carolyn thought it was a horrible name but acquiesced. Before long our house had all the life-support equipment that cats require: some balls with bells in them and a stinky litter box. Scaredy had a home, Carolyn had a kitten, and Ben and I learned to deal with it. After a claw or two to the snoot Ben even shared his water dish. Begrudgingly.

About a year later Scaredy was a full-grown cat. One evening in early fall she didn't return to the house after her daily roam around the yard. When she stayed absent for several days I thought our cat-owning phase had passed like our stint in Amway. Each time I came in from outside Carolyn asked me if I'd seen Scaredy. And each time I gave the same answer...a big, faked-sad "No."

On a Saturday afternoon not long after, I made a trip to the chicken coop to retrieve some garden tools. When I pushed the door open I heard a familiar squeaking noise coming from the very back corner. I worked my way to the rear, moving old bicycles, grimy window sashes and rusted metal buckets as I went. Scaredy lay nested in the corner, curled up around her new family. Three tiny kittens, their eyes still unopened, nursed at Scaredy's side. One was black and white like her mother and sported white mittens on her front paws. The second was a calico and the third one was gray with a white spot on the tip of her tail. The rest of the family gathered around to gaze and coo at the new brood. Benji came in, sniffed, and stalked off disgusted, perhaps sensing what this new beguilement would cost his people.

The invasion began in earnest as autumn turned to winter. One evening Scaredy showed up at the basement door with her family in tow. Fearing that they'd freeze over the winter we let them stay downstairs and I only saw them when I went down to change the furnace filter. I hardly knew they were there until one morning at about 2:30 Scrappy (the Calico) and Mittens (the black-and-white) had a cat-fight on the back steps. The awful screeching and growling jolted me out of a sound sleep. With murder in my heart I stormed to the cellar door and shoved it open. The combatants, who joined their battle at the top of the steps, got knocked off the stoop. They ran back into the basement, leaving no evidence of their fight but a big puddle. Not long afterward I evicted the whole family. They moved back into the chicken coop. Had I known what was in store I would have left them where they were.

The kittens grew to adulthood, earning their keep by holding down the mole population. They stayed in the chicken coop but paid us occasional visits. Around summertime a gray-striped tabby who looked like a fighter claimed the coop for his harem. He had a big nick out of one ear, and that feature earned him the name Big Nick. Fighting was only one of Big Nick's hobbies. I don't have to explain the other one to you. As summer turned to fall our four cats turned to nine. Mittens and Scrappy both delivered litters containing variations on a tabby-striped theme. Not long after the blessed event Big Nick hit the road. Judging from the position I found him in he hit it pretty hard. That can happen out here in the country. A lot of big farm equipment travels our road.

Our herd had reached its zenith when we scarcely dared to back the cars out of the garage for fear of running over kittens. Something had to give, and it turned out to be us. Our vet earned a couple hundred dollars spaying Scaredy, Mittens and Scrappy. Only one of Mitten's kittens remained unaltered, a one-eyed tabby we (okay, I) named Deadeye. She managed to sneeze just as she went on the operating table so the vet wouldn't anesthetize her; that sneeze resulted in three more kittens. The gray cat and several other kittens disappeared on their own, and now we're down to a manageable two cats. We kept Deadeye and one of her daughters, a jet-black kitty named Midnight. The two couldn't be more different. Deadeye is a first-order lover who craves long strokes and chin rubs. Midnight spends most of her time outdoors, occasionally coming in the house to fill up on free cat food and mooch a bite of whatever I happen to be eating.

I'm not sure whether we were irresponsible pet owners back when we had kittens popping up like dandelions. Except for the first one and the last two, most of them didn't qualify as pets. They were barn cats who had family ties to us. Whatever we were then we are definitely responsible pet owners now. Midnight got a trip to the vet for her first half-birthday. Her mom, who had trouble delivering Midnight, got spayed during an expensive Mother's Day Cesearean section. This, however, I do know: in terms of multiplication, barn cats got rabbits beat hands down. If they were a better cash crop I could have retired on them.

Not long ago I volunteered to help out with the Wednesday-night boys' Bible club at church. My job was a simple one. The club's director asked me to bring a brief lesson for the gathering time at the end of the night. As a veteran leader of Wednesday-night Bible clubs this should have been a cake walk. And maybe if I'd baked a cake I would have been all right.

The lesson I planned would be simple but memorable. The club's members are boys who are in the third through sixth grades. I'd make a caramel apple for one boy in each grade, plus one for a leader. I planned to conceal the last apple until the end, substituting a caramel-dipped onion for the fifth apple. Now, don't write me angry comments and don't call Protective Services. I planned to reveal my little subterfuge before anybody took a bite. The boys' suspicious looks, sniffs, scratches and tentative tastes would lead into my talk about how sometimes things that look good really aren't and it's wise to know how to tell the difference. Then I'd retrieve the counterfeit and give its holder the real apple. Believe me, I don't go around pulling mean tricks on small children. Nor do I look forward to Thursday-morning phone calls from angry mothers and distraught youth pastors. No children would be harmed. They might be a little grossed-out, but boys love that sort of action.

On Tuesday I stopped at the store and bought five Golden Delicious apples, a white onion of about the same size, some Kraft caramels and a bottle of caramel ice-cream topping. I figured that the topping would speed the coating process up since it was already liquid. The caramels were for the boys who didn't get apples; they could at least take home a pocketful of caramels. After supper I set to work. I poured the topping into the top half of a double-boiler and filled the bottom half with water. I put the double-boiler on the stove and turned to wash the apples before I stuck the sticks in them. By the time I had the last apple washed, rinsed and stuck I noticed that the empty topping bottle was almost clean inside save for a gooey little ring at the bottom. I stepped over to the stove and picked up a spoon, dipping it in the warm caramel. The stuff ran off like water. I took the double-boiler off the cooktop to let the caramel cool. Just then I realized, too late, that caramel topping was the wrong ingredient for coating apples. Since the topping ran off the bottle's sides at room temperature, clearly it was designed to congeal on ice cream!

I unwrapped one bag's worth of Kraft caramels and threw them in the topping, stirring vigorously to speed up the melting process. By the time I had all 50 in the pot (45 if you count the ones I sampled) the goo started to resemble caramel that belonged on an apple. I dipped the first apple in, rolled it around a bit and stuck it on some pre-greased waxed paper. For a moment the caramel appeared to be holding; perhaps all was not lost. Then, like a glacier suffering an inconvenient truth, the coating slowly oozed down the apple.

Still hoping for a satisfactory outcome, I let the coating cool a bit longer before I dipped the other apples. By the time I was done I had five partly-glazed apples surrounded by a puddle of melted caramel glop, a sticky brown trail across the stove to the countertop, and an ego as flat as an apple stick. I took a deep breath, got out some more waxed paper, buttered it up, and moved the apples onto it. Then I scraped the residue back in the pan and prepared to give the apples a second coat. As I picked up the double-boiler I looked down at the cooktop. My heart sank; I'd dropped the butter tub lid right in the center of the hot burner and melted it on the cooktop! I stared disbelieving at this new glob of sticky gunk. I could see the product logo printed on the other side. Carefully I lifted the outer ring, hoping that the thing was just really soft. Nope, it was goo; all I picked up was the ring.

Panic erased my frustration. I couldn't let Carolyn see what I'd done. That stove is her pride and joy, the crown jewel of her kitchen. Damaging her cooktop would be the same, to her, as leaving a full-length key scratch down the side of my truck. Quickly I fell back on a lesson I'd learned the hard way over 27 years of marriage. If you make a mistake, the best thing to do is...say it with me, married men...GET RID OF THE EVIDENCE!! I grabbed a metal spatula out of the kitchen drawer and quickly but very, very carefully scraped up and disposed of almost all the molten plastic, which extruded wispy little strings as I carried it to the trash. All that remained was some of the blue printing, including that infernal logo. I turned off the burner and moved the double-boiler to the other side of the cooktop.

Several tries later I finally got enough caramel to stick to the apples so that they didn't look completely anemic. Then I turned my attention to the onion. I peeled off the papery skin, trimmed off the ends and stuck a stick in it. By then I'd calmed down enough to remember to shove the stick in more deeply so I'd know the onion by its short handle. Not wishing to taint the apples, I dipped the onion last and stored it in a separate cooler. Then I made another unwelcome discovery: Onions hold even less caramel than apples do. A big shiny white spot glimmered through my candy camouflage. I tried a second dip; that only revealed more onion. I tried pouring semi-solid caramel over it. All I got for my effort was a large glob on the plate just below the bald spot. In one desperate final attempt I threw the onion in the cooler while the caramel was still at high tide, hoping the cold would slow the sliding to the point that I could at least get it through my talk. I scraped the last few gobs of caramel into the trash, cleaned up the kitchen, scrubbed the last of the plastic off the cooktop, and dropped into bed.

The next morning I peeked in the cooler. A stark white onion diffidently greeted me, as round and pale as a full moon. Its caramel coat lay in ruined heaps on the plate underneath it. I snapped the plate up off the shelf and with one graceful motion flung the caramel onion into the trash bin. Then I got out my old leader books and went to work designing Plan B.

As I half-heartedly flipped through the section on Games and Stunts I pondered the previous night's sticky ordeal. Did the devil cleverly deceive me into buying stuff that wouldn't work, thereby ruining what would have been a great lesson? Did God know that some impatient boy would bite the onion without waiting for instructions? Did He allow the project to fail to spare the kid and me unnecessary grief? I don't know. I wonder if perhaps the apples were the source of the trouble. After all, man's fall from grace began with an apple. Maybe that fruit just isn't His favorite!

Wednesday morning dawned foggy and overcast here. I was on my way to work, just cresting a small hill on my favorite rural two-lane, or as I like to call it, the "Cow Path," when I noticed a small Ford tractor parked in a driveway off to my left. Right now I have the use of my brother-in-law's Farmall for mowing and hauling around the farm but I've thought it would be nice to have a tractor of my own, especially if someday he takes his back. I glanced at the "For Sale" sign on the Ford and noticed that it came with implements, but I couldn't tell which ones it had. And the price was only $2750, which was a lot less than I thought it would be because people love those small Fords. Out of the corner of my eye I caught something moving in the road.

GAAAAAA!!! It was a deer! And not just any deer but a great big six-point buck. He'd bounded out of a cornfield and didn't seem to care that I was closing on him. Fast. I stomped the brakes hard, launching my lunch off the passenger seat and scaring the bejeebers out of the guy in the Subaru behind me. The deer didn't even turn his head. He just made a great gallop and was across the road and gone in the wink of an eye. I only missed him by about a second, narrowly avoiding turning my truck into yet another highway statistic.

The county in Michigan where I live leads the whole U.S. in car-deer accidents. In ten years our white-tailed neighbors have cost me one car and inflicted serious damage on another. And it's a pretty safe bet that had I T-boned that buck, my insurance company would have given me the replacement value of my truck in a desk calendar with my agent's name on it and one of their big USA Road Atlases.

Almost forty years ago our nation put a man on the moon. What have our best brains done since then? What have they brought us that matches the Saturn V rocket? Mood rings and Rubik's Cube? I think we should lure those great scientists, physicists and physiologists out of mothballs, dust off their pocket protectors, and put them to work at engineering some high-tech ways to crash-proof  the deer population. Not being a cerebral slouch myself, I've already concocted several ideas which I will offer to the cause gratis, without any hope or expectation of recompense. They are:

Blaze Orange Buckskin - One of the biggest problems that deer have is that their natural tan coloring blends in so well with harvest-time cornstalks and roadside weeds. You can't see them until you're right on top of them. Perhaps scientists could develop genetically-altered corn. When deer eat it, the kernels would secrete a chemical that would cause their coats to turn orange. Farmers would only have to plant a few of the outside rows on their fields with it to induce a temporary, harmless pigment change in their local deer herds. A side benefit of this crop would be greatly-increased visibility at a time when it's needed most: Hunting Season.

Spandex Deer Vests - If people harbor fears of creating Frankenfood with all its unpredictable effects, why not develop a line of reflective vests like road workers wear? Conservation Officers and Game Wardens could trek the springtime woods, seeking out tiny fawns just after they're born. They'd snap a durable, scent-free vest on the newborn and the incredible Spandex material would stretch as the deer grew, ensuring a high degree of visibility and safety as well as outstanding midriff support.

Deer-Luring Deer Crossing Signs - Deer don't pay any more attention to "Deer Crossing" signs than little boys pay to signs that warn of wet paint. And when the smaller signs are added, the ones that say "NEXT 7 MI," they only mean that if you let your guard down in the next ten minutes some unlucky whitetail is going to become a hood ornament. My signs would draw deer to pre-designated, high-visibility stretches of road by employing the same enticements hunters use: food and sex. Version One would be stocked daily with carrots. Special sensors in the signs would detect which side of the road a deer was on and calculate its rate of travel and the likelihood of it crossing the road. As the deer drew near, the sign would detect oncoming traffic and either drop a carrot or launch it across the road, causing the deer to pause for a snack as traffic passed safely. Version Two would have an option to calculate the size of the deer and, upon detecting a buck, douse the nearby ground with doe estrus, thereby holding the buck's attention until the road was clear.

Outward-Facing Airbags - Sometimes, in spite of man's best efforts, a deer will wander willy-nilly into the path of a speeding car. At times like these, the Outward-Facing Airbag will be nature's best friend. In mere microseconds, before the vehicle's bumper has even swept the deer off its feet, the OFA will deploy and envelop the animal in a tough, durable, tranquilizer-laced vinyl sac. Interfaces in the car's computer system will apply the brakes, trigger the hazard flashers and steer the car to the nearest wide shoulder of the road, where the drowsy deer can be safely disgorged to finish its nap. The now-flaccid bag would be detached, stuffed in the trunk and taken to a state-certified service garage to be repacked, recharged, and re-installed. Most insurers will gladly include the service in their Comprehensive coverages, as soon as they realize what they'll save over the cost of today's car-deer accident claims.

Some may call these ideas the random ramblings of a certifiable loony. And perhaps my suggestions aren't feasible today. But at some time in the future, after our best and brightest have overcome the engineering problems, you may see what appears to be a large orange road worker with a lascivious look in his eye, dreamily munching a carrot by the side of the road. And when you do, remember this article and be grateful.