Managing Editor Kelly Kazek

Anyone know a cat whisperer?

I’m willing to give one of these special “animal communicators” a try if it will help me determine if our new cat Scout is seriously deranged or merely laughing behind his paw at our expense.

I need to know. It could affect whether he gets Fancy Feast or ValuTuna for the rest of his life.

Scout is a stray I found a few weeks ago roaming near Interstate 65. He’s a beautiful boy — more tan than orange with strange, dark-gold eyes.

It’s his adorable expression — cocked head, big innocent “love me” eyes — that made me take him home. It’s that same expression, so far, that has saved him from sessions on the kitty therapist’s tiny couch.

But he’s walking a short piece of yarn.

Being a stray, Scout has the idea that he will never have enough food. I have the bite marks on my toes to prove he’ll eat just about anything.

One day, I placed a half-empty can of Fancy Feast turkey dinner in a plastic, zippered bag. Knowing Scout’s appetite, I placed the baggy high on a pantry shelf behind a box of cereal.

Within minutes, I heard the sound of bags of potato chips and boxes of Hamburger Helper falling to the floor. Running to the kitchen, I found Scout on the last shelf before the top, making his way toward the cat food.

He reminded me of myself when my daughter Shannon hides her Halloween candy from me.

I learned to firmly close the pantry door but there is no door to our kitchen. My sleep has so often been interrupted by crashing sounds that I no longer bother to get up to see what fell. I figure it will still be broken in the morning.

Nights are worse for Shannon, though. At some point in his 18-month lifetime, Scout must have experienced a terrible trauma at 4 a.m. Perhaps that was the time he was mugged by a crazed Chihuahua or a cat bully took his last stash of catnip.

Somehow, the combination of “4” and “a.m.” turns him into a furry projectile with evil intent. That’s when he slinks into Shannon’s bedroom and oh-so-lovingly pounces on her feet and legs, scratching and clawing. If only he could wait an hour or so, he’d make a pretty good alarm clock. She might go to school covered in bandages but she’d get there on time.

I could live with these traits, I suppose, but I discovered a more, um, disturbing aspect of his personality. The other night, I was in Shannon’s room when Scout hopped up on her bed and began kneading his favorite blanket. Then, as he kneaded, he grabbed a corner of the soft fabric between his teeth and began sucking it.

You read it right. I am the proud owner of a shelf-climbing, night stalking, blanky-sucking cat.

Of course, I am concerned only with Scout’s mental health and not my public image. Oh, and Shannon says she is getting a little traumatized herself from sitting on her bed and finding it damp with cat spit.

So I need help. I went online and found a Web site for a cat whisperer who gave some advice for getting a cat to do what you want it to. For instance, by using your eyes, you can tell a cat where you want him to go.

This woman obviously doesn’t know I have already told Scout where to go. Repeatedly.

But I decided to give her advice a try. I read: “When you want your cat to come to you, or jump up on your lap, make eye contact for about two seconds, then shift your eyes to look where you want the cat to end up. Then immediately shift your eyes back to make eye contact with your cat, hold for one second, then look somewhere else. You may have to do this two or three times before your cat understands that you understand the whole ‘eye thing.’”

Sounded good.

Eye contact. Cheap. Simple. Won’t keep me from my Andy Griffith reruns on TV.

I called Scout several times but he apparently has not learned his name (which I’m sure the cat whisperer would attribute to the fact that I call him Butthead with such frequency. Hey, it just slips out.).

So I sat cross-legged on the floor and sat Scout a few inches in front of me. I stared — one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two —then looked away. When I looked back, Scout was tangled in the cord of a lamp, which teetered precariously on the side table. I grabbed it just in time.

After untangling him, I tried again. I looked at Scout then oh-so-casually looked where I wanted him to end up, my lap.

This time, he took the hint, but he may have misinterpreted the subtlety of my signal. I’ll let you know when I get the bandages removed from my thigh.

Giving up, I headed to bed, ignoring the sound of Scout eating the plastic decorations that adorn my daughter’s shower curtain.

Somewhere out there, I know there is help.

Or maybe I should fall back on the time-tested technique for owners of Pets with Issues — ear plugs and a blindfold.