(Note - I've received complaints from at least one animal rights group member about this column saying "I don't find this funny, I find it offensive". I don't really mean to be offensive. It's just that . . . well, I guess I do mean to be offensive sometimes. I'm as compassionate as the next guy but I just don't like cats all that much - even less when they're dead.)

    My son and I were busily blasting away a bunch of bad guys with the Sony Playstation, when the front doorbell rang.

     "Take charge kiddo." I yelled above the video mayhem, "I'll be back before you can say 'gratuitous violence'."

     He managed to tear his eyes away from the TV screen long enough to give me one of those stares seven-year-olds produce when they suddenly realize there's no point in paying attention to Dad until there's a need to borrow money for a car, tuition or, as is often the case in my neighbourhood, bail.

     I opened the door to find a lovely young woman standing on my front step, golden curls cascading over her shoulders and an appealing "home-town-girl" kind of smile for which Playboy magazine pays a fortune to have millions of men ignore.

     I stuck my hand in my pocket protectively clutching my wallet.

     I wasn't about to buy a $20 hamburg discount coupon to help fight the war against chicken pornography.

     I'm not a libertarian, but I figure whatever two consenting chickens decide to do with their bodies is their business.

     But she wasn't after money.

     She wanted something more.

     She sought my compassion.

     "I'm sorry I bothered you so late," she began, which of course means nothing because if she was really sorry, she wouldn't have bothered me in the first place.

     "I just wondered if you owned a cat."

     Could it be some weird survey, a neighbourly complaint or maybe just the start of the world's worst sales pitch? Quickly, my mind churned for a clever, biting response to this untenable interruption.

     "Nope," I said.

     "The reason I ask," she said, "is that a cat that was just hit and killed by a car, and I just wondered if it was yours. It was just about in front of your house."

     Cats and I have not had a great history. I played with a cat named Boots at my grandparents' farm when I was a child, and loved it like it was my own. More recently however, a cat has taken a liking to my property so much that it has made my lawn its own personal toilet facility. I suppose it's all well and good for the lawn, but that midsummer mowing surprise on my sneakers is completely unwelcome.

     "Did it look relieved?" I asked. "I mean, other than a kind of dead cat look on its face, could you tell if it had recently performed a vandalism somewhere?"

     She didn't answer. "I just thought it might be yours, or you might know who it belonged too."

     "Nope, sorry."

     And then she looked at me as if I were supposed to do or say something else. Maybe she expected me to rush out into the street with a feline defibrillator and zap the poor beast back into this world. Or at least come out and stare at the kitty carcass.

      Maybe even poke it with a stick, as is usually demanded in such circumstances.

     But I just stood there.

     And so did she.

     For what seemed the longest time.

     Eventually, she apologized again for the interruption and walked back to the street. I closed the door quickly and didn't notice whether she picked up a stick on her way.

     I didn't get much sleep that night.

     I thought I heard scratching at the door.