JUL 25, 2011 – 12:00AM

The darnedest thing happened during my ride home the other late night/early morning.

I was pedaling home, and just as I was about a half mile from downtown, cruising through a quiet Old West Lawrence neighborhood, I spied two glowing orbs up ahead.

I’ve seen all sorts of wildlife in the area — foxes, dogs, coyotes, raccoons, opossums — so I wasn’t surprised. As I drew closer, however, the eyes didn’t move. I approached and learned the feral glowing orbs belonged to a cat, lounging in the middle of the street.

I pedaled on, then spied two more glowing eyes down the road. Again, another kitty. Again, sprawled out on the pavement.

A block away … another feline. And another. And another.

I couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a live one.

In the span of, maybe, three-fourths of a mile, there were close to a dozen cats, all lounging in the middle of the road, and all loathe to get out of my way. It looked like a scene from the four-legged version of “The Day After.”

It had been, believe it or not, a rather warm day, but by the time of my kitty-strewn commute, the temperature had dropped to about the level of the core of the sun. Give or take a dozen degrees Kelvin.

And it dawned on me that the felines were chillaxin’ on the blacktop in an attempt to get warm! Silly kitties.

It made me think of my (wife’s) cat. Every living thing in the region is trying to find a way to cool down, and Miles the Mental Giant (my (wife’s) cat) regularly, though reluctantly, rouses himself from his grueling regimen of nonstop daylong slumber to chase the tiny slivers of sunlight throughout the house before curling up in them. The earth turns, the slivers move, Miles shifts.

As the mercury climbs, I worry about all things hirsute: dogs, horses, that guy at the pool with his sweater … oh, wait, that’s not a sweater. But I find it difficult to feel for felines who deliberately seek out the sun and warm their bellies on the pavement.

I rode the same route the following night, and it was kitty-less. Next night: no Felixes, Morrises or Mr. Whiskerses to be seen.

It would seem my kitty slalom was a one-time thing.

Maybe the warming thing was just a ruse. Maybe the furballs are getting organized, massing for the cat-pocalypse. Perhaps they realize their individual efforts to overthrow mankind — tripping us as we walk down stairs, stealing our breath as we sleep — aren’t enough, and only through solidarity can the kitties ascend to what they believe is their righteous place on top of the animal kingdom.

I fear I might have unwittingly rolled into the planning stages of the great kitty uprising, and I worry I just might be their first target. I’m afraid I know too much.

I literally was run off the road over the weekend. I didn’t lay eyes on the driver, but I suspect Toonces.

If I’m found at the bottom of a cliff after “accidentally” riding over it, please dust for hairballs.

I might be paranoid, but it sure seems like Miles is giving me an odd look.

But only when he’s awake.