My new wife and I made two major and diametrically opposed purchases this year — a couch and a cat. She wanted the couch. I wanted the cat. The cat is not allowed on the couch. And the couch is not allowed on the cat.

We bought the couch first. We spent months looking for the perfect one. Our criteria were, and pay close attention here, that the couch was nice to look at and comfortable to sit on. Finally, we found a beautiful one. It was, by far, the most expensive thing we had ever purchased together, and it represented our union as much as any marriage certificate.

With the couch came rules. Actually, at first, there was only one rule: No one can sit on the couch. We eventually loosened on that, and thus came more rules: No eating while on the couch. No drinking while on the couch — unless you were drinking couch-cleaning fluid. Finally, no hanky panky on the couch. Guests thought we were nuts when we asked them to move off the couch after offering them a bite to eat, something to drink or sex.

After a few months of couch-owning bliss, we began the search for a cat. At first, my wife wasn’t enthused. Whenever I brought up the subject, she would tense up, arch her back and make her hair stand up so it looked like she was more menacing. But a little catnip sprinkled on her dinner, and I had her in the palm of my hand.

Our criteria for the cat: The cat must be mellow, but playful; young, but not a tiny kitten; orange in color, but not neon orange. We found our furry feline friend at a shelter. She needed love. We knew we could provide her with this love … as long as she didn’t go on the couch.

The first few days went great. Then the cat peed on a chair. My wife was angry. I was distraught. The cat seemed unaffected. In the next week, she peed outside of her litter box a second and third time. The third time happened at in our bed, all over the comforter, all over the mattress and … all over the wife.

It was the third strike; the cat should have been out. Luckily, my wife and I have agreed to play all household issues by kickball rules, where four strikes constitute an out.

A week went by with my cat faithfully using the litter box. Then I came home one night after my wife had gone to bed. I plopped down on the couch, and there it was next to me: a big, wet splotch. I buried my nose into the stain … and there was no smell.

Anyone who has owned a cat before knows that cat urine doesn’t come in the unscented variety. Then again, my nose was stuffed up. I would have to wake my wife. “Gina! Wake up. There’s a wet spot on the couch … .” I didn’t finish my sentence; my wife had already pounced on the couch, mounting a full-on inspection.

After a minute, my wife’s face turned red. She had figured out the source of the wet spot. That’s right: It was her own drool. The evidence was undeniable. Hours earlier, my wife had dozed off on the couch, and the spot matched up perfectly to where her mouth had been.

My wife confessed, and we had a good laugh. Then I locked her in the bathroom for the night, and my cat and I headed off to a good night’s rest.

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(Mark Bazer can be reached at mebazer@yahoo.com.)

(c) 2002 mark bazer, Distributed by Tribune Media Services, Inc.