Well, she has finally done it. I wonder if she set out to do it, or if it was just inevitable that I would fall under her little spell. I used to think she was just a little eccentric, but now I realize that she takes frequent trips over the brink of sanity and I have become her passenger. I can't use the excuse that I didn't have any warning. Her very own flesh and blood uncle tried to warn me that her particular gene pool was a little murky before I fell any further in love, but his good-natured warning came way too late.

From the moment that I stammered my oh-so clever pick-up line, "Uhh, how tall are you?" it was too late. Her uncle could have informed me that she had been acquitted of a triple-homicide on a mere technicality; it still wouldn't have mattered.

For some reason, when she is near me, I transform from a calm, cool, and collected individual into a giddy, babbling, and left-of-center human being. I remember a time when I was a reserved, logical, and rational man. Being a police officer I have to be. I can handle tense situations without ever losing my cool. I can drive my squad car with a raging psycho in the back seat telling me just what he thinks of me and what he hopes will happen to me and never let it get under my skin. I can patiently listen to a really long, pitiful sob story about why a driver is exceeding the posted speed limit, and hand over a ticket with a smile. However, when she tries to sneak another stray animal into her huge menagerie of once-homeless critters (thinking I won't notice) I just lose it; I actually consider throttling her with my bare hands and hiding her body.

Then, of course, she turns to me with tears in her eyes, a tremble on her lips, and a quaver in her voice, and says" But Honey, pleeeease?! You won't even know it's there, and it will die if I don't take care of it!!! This is the last time, I promise!" For the second time in a matter of seconds, my rationality deserts me. I go from spitting mad to feeling utterly responsible for the well-being of whatever mangy creature she has dragged up. I never actually say the words, but she knows. We both also know that it won't be the last beast that receives asylum at our house. I actually converted my garage into a sanctuary for her wild kingdom; she refused to marry me otherwise. I not only turned my garage into a heated, carpeted, furnished suite for a bunch of ungrateful flea-motels, I also spent my very limited amount of free time constructing a cat-proof fence around the entire thing so the little darlings can't run out and play in the street. What sane man would do such a thing to his garage?

As if turning my garage into a refuge for a bunch of flea-ridden fur-bags isn't enough, I have turned my backyard into an immense pet cemetery I wildlife conservation station. To make up for the loss of my backyard, she has bestowed upon me the position of resident grave-digger and gamekeeper. More than once I have been out in the middle of the night in a downpour burying cats, mice, frogs, puppies, or any other creature that had the misfortune to expire on a bad night. The game-keeping position entails building bird and squirrel feeders in my free time (which isn't easy without a garage), and keeping them supplied with food so all the stray squirrels and birds in North America can have a free meal at my expense. So, besides spending my free time on strays, I also have an enormous feed bill that eats away at my hard-earned money. Somehow she has convinced me that it is my duty to devote my time and money to provide welfare to a bunch of wild animals I don't even know.

Besides spending my time and money on a bunch of free-loading critters, I have also been known to lose my dignity in an effort to make her smile. Yes, I once caught myself chasing a little green frog across a busy parking lot with a Styrofoam cup in an effort to capture the silly thing so I could bring it home to her to add to her collection of "released frogs." She claims that the frogs will multiply and eat mosquitoes, therefore making the world a safer place. You would think that I would remember that eventually I will be out in the rain burying the silly thing, but like I said, where she is concerned, rationality tends to escape me.

If all of these details aren't enough proof that some of the eggs in my basket are cracked, well, I have one more piece of evidence. I actually spent several long nights working overtime to buy her a cat and fly (yes, in an airplane) the useless thing to Oklahoma. The way I used to see things, cats weren't good for anything but leaving muddy footprints and scratches on the hood of my car, and they were as plentiful as mosquitoes on a hot summer night. When we first met she had a mentally challenged Siamese cat that she adored. An unfortunate accident befell the poor retarded thing, and she was utterly devastated. I tried to console her by reminding her that she still had several cats out in the fantastic cathouse that was once a garage. That piece of information did not go over well. As a matter fact, I think it made matters worse. She tearfully insisted that he was from a special bloodline and the only way to begin the healing process would be to replace him with a relative. That particular bloodline happened to be about a thousand miles away. Once again, the tears and trembling lips stole my common sense. I not only paid an enormous amount for a funny looking cat, I also bought the silly thing a plane ticket. And as if that wasn't quite crazy enough, I also bought an extra ticket for someone to escort the little beast so he could ride in the plane's cabin instead of with the baggage. Thus, I ask, do I still belong to the sane world, or am I existing on the lunatic fringe?