The Test and the Brightest

My job used to afford lots of empty time in the post-midnight hours that required filling, and one early morning my mind found itself attracted to one of those online IQ tests that seem to be everywhere.

So I took it.

And thought, when I looked at the result, I’m smarter than that.

I don’t claim to be an Einstein. I started running into people smarter than I am quite early in life, and the trend has not abated. But still, to have ranked in the IQ vicinity of one of our less-celebrated presidents (according to information thoughtfully provided by the test makers) rankled me. So I looked for a different test, and took it, too.

And scored exactly the same.

Which led to my finding another test, and taking it.

And scoring about 20 points lower.

All right. That last one I attributed to mental fatigue. Testing experts probably would not recommend back-to-back-to-back efforts when your mind has already been taxed by a full day of work and the midnight drowsies and such. Furthermore, I thought, who’s to say that these pop-psychology quizzes of the type that show up online have any real validity, preying as they do on the bored and vain. So I decided to put the test to the test, so to speak.

A few days later, I persuaded my wife to take the first one that I’d taken.

I will not reveal the results. But a word of advice to any fellow husband who might ever be tempted to match brainpower with his wife:

It’s not a smart idea.

Here, There and Everywhere

Cato patiently awaits a decision about what to do with his earthly remains.

My plan had always been to bury him next to his “brother” Clouseau, beneath the day lilies in the side flowerbed. I had a wooden “casket” picked out and the burial shroud - an old, hooded gray sweatshirt of mine. (Clouseau is in a navy blue one.)

But then, on impulse, I had Cato cremated. Ironic, in a sense: After all the time and effort we spent almost every day in his final months to hydrate him, he is now the ultimate in dehydration.

Just as I expect to be someday.

I have plans for the disposal of my own ashes which involve a final trip to my hometown for repose in a place I will not publicly reveal, lest it not be strictly legal. Let’s just say it will be a rare immersion for Joe in water.

A friend with cremation plans wants his ashes divvied up among his best mates, with instructions to disperse them in the place that each identifies most with him. If I should be one of those so entrusted, I will have to find a way to deposit him in the vicinity of what used to be a pool hall on Nolensville Road in Nashville. A private ceremonial scattering in the parking lot, perhaps, with appropriate wording like, “You beat me again, Ed.”

Cato’s ashes could still be buried beneath the flowers, with appropriate ceremony. And I was somewhere between aghast and amused when I saw some of the storage alternatives, including the Buddha cat urn above. But a little research turned up some more palatable choices, and now I‘m reconsidering.

After all, 20 years as the World’s Sweetest (and Sometimes Loudest) Cat certainly earned Cato a permanent spot around the place.

The Tie That Binds

Even as a kid, I never subscribed to the Beaver Cleaver theory that girls are yucky. Pretty much from Day 1 of the first grade, I would scan my female classmates, settle on the perfect one for me, and instantly develop a crush.

Girls, I thought, are not yucky at all. They’re nifty.

And so through elementary school I had a succession of love affairs, many (O.K., most) of them entirely unrequited. As a result, some girls who have long since disappeared from my life - who, let’s face it, never were much in it - nevertheless occupy a fond place in my memory.

But there was one who really held my heart, one with staying power, one whom I watched grow from a feisty little kindergartner into a slinky young teenager: Angela Cartwright.

From “Make Room for Daddy” through “Lost in Space” she captured my imagination, the embodiment of the girl next door who just happened to be a TV actress. Not a particularly good actress, truth be told, but I’m a forgiving sort when dazzled by looks.

Alas, like the others, she eventually fell out of my life. The last I remember of her was a peanut butter commercial - or was it toothpaste? - and then I lost track.

Until I Googled her.

And learned that Angela has her own Web site (of course), with filmography and interviews and scrapbook photos of her career and various calendars, T-shirts, coffee mugs, postcards and the like featuring her own artwork (who knew?). She’ll even autograph pictures, like the one above, as Penny in “Lost in Space,” for $20.

Does she look like that anymore? No. She’s 56. Does she still look good? I think so.

Some crushes have staying power.