Behind the refrigerator? A cat the size of a Shetland pony could not possibly wedge herself in such a small space. I climbed on top of the counter next to the refrigerator – no small feat in a bathrobe and big fuzzy bedroom slippers – and peered behind the appliance at the dusty coils. Sure enough, there she was, trapped between the back of the appliance and the wall. She meowed her indignation.

 I had my daughter hand me a broom and then tried to slip down next to the cat. It didn't take long to realize my parts were bigger than her parts. There was no way I was getting back there, so I tried to force her to back up,

using the broom as a guide. It didn't work: she stuck to the wall like three-day-old bubble gum. In the background, I heard the telephone ring, but paid little attention. I was on a holy quest to free the cat. She was my Grail, the broom my Excaliber and I – Arthurette in chenille armor – was determined to win this battle.

 The broom wasn't working. Dynamite was out of the question. Walls – and cats – are too expensive to replace. Duchess was making unhappy noises, but made no move to free herself. With a half-written page and an encroaching deadline rolling my way, I couldn't spend much more time exploring feline extrication techniques. I sucked in my stomach as best I could and plastered myself to the wall. If I really stretched, I could just touch the end of her tail. But she refused to back up, and she couldn't go forward since the refrigerator was in a corner. I wondered if it was possible for her to be electrocuted? I wondered if it was possible for me to be electrocuted?

 "Get me a kitty treat of some sort," I ordered my daughter. Elizabeth couldn't find them, but she did locate an unopened package of chocolate chip cookies and sample a few. I unpeeled myself with much huffing and  puffing and went to look for something to entice the stubborn furball from her hiding place, passing my son just as he hung up the telephone.

 "His number."

 "Son, a telephone number has at least seven numbers in it. This one's missing three."

 He sighed. "I know. Mom, that man needs to slow down when he talks. He went too fast."

 "Well, if I ever figure out who Mr. 9741 is, I'll be sure to pass that along," I told him as I continued to rummage. I found the cat treats, but the package was empty. I knew I had bought a brand new package just the other day. I made a mental note to ask my spouse what kind of midnight snacks he was having and returned to the refrigerator, mulling over the phantom phone call.

Finally, I decided not to worry about it. Maybe the guy would call back. More than likely it was just some college student trying to sell me a time-share condominium. I needed to return to my page, which was growing colder by the moment. I started to peek behind the refrigerator just as the haughty black and white puffball came sauntering around the corner as though nothing had ever happened. I made a mental note to buy her a collar with big magnets on it.

 "Hey guys, I'm going back to my computer. You two stop eating those cookies and behave, OK?"

 "OK, Mom. Hey, guess what? I think I just remembered that guy's name!" My son was beaming.

 "Really? What was it?" Hope was not dead, after all.

 "Cen, Cen, Centor. I think that was it. Centor something."

 "Centor? Gee, honey, I don't know anyone named Centor." A terrible thought struck me.

 "I'm afraid to ask this but could he have said 'senator'?"

 "Yep, that was it," my son said, quite pleased with himself.

 My stomach sank to my toes. I'd been trying to interview a very busy senator for several weeks. He finally called me back and my son told him I was stuck behind the refrigerator with the cat. I disengaged Duchess, who had wrapped herself around my leg, grabbed what was left of the chocolate chips and took them back into my office, making a mental note to invest in an answering machine.