The Coast-to-Coast radio show, I am told by those closest to me, has taken over my life.

Whenever that bouncy music starts and George Noory's energetic voice welcomes me with, 'good morning or good evening, wherever you may be' my spouse makes a face and leaves the room.

'Call me when it's over' is usually the comment. In my house a few bars of intro music can trigger bouts of eye rolling and mutterings of 'good lord, where on earth do you find these shows'.

To be honest paranormal talk shows and Internet pod casts first arrived in my life as a mere curiosity, an interest exercised, an intriguing way to spend an evening. Quickly, however, they turned into a guilty pleasure. I found myself searching the Internet for revealing interviews and I spent countless hours studying all things esoteric. Over time, I must admit, my 'crazy shows' -- as my spouse calls them -- have become a relentless and heartfelt compulsion.

And for that I blame my cat. Yep, definitely his fault.

It all began some years ago while I was living, ignorant of esoteric radio broadcasts, in a run-down apartment building in Vancouver. My cat, a pudgy brown tabby named Gable, developed the annoying habit of darting out the door to explore the hallway.

And he was fast, like a bullet with fur; one quick turn of the doorknob and he was gone, skulking and sniffing and in search of god-knows-what.

Because he was an indoor cat, I took pity on him. I allowed him to wander. Each night, when he returned from his walkabouts, he was always content and would purr incessantly. As long as the landlord didn't find out, I thought, all seemed well enough.

Until one night when he came home smelling of someone else's perfume.

Scoundrel, he had been visiting the neighbor; she had better treats and four cats of her own. I followed him to her door and knocked loudly, hoping to confront this evil seductress and discover the secret of her succulent treats.

She was actually a lovely woman named Patricia who had a joyful heart, a warm smile and a small jungle of cat stands. We became fast friends.

After several potluck dinners and mutual trips to the pet store, I discovered that every weekend Patricia traveled to Vancouver Island to visit Doris, her elderly and ailing mother. Which meant, of course, that she needed someone to baby sit her cats on the weekends.

I swear, if Gable could have kicked me under the table he would have. For fear of shredded drapes, I immediately offered my services.

During the many months of cat sitting I learned from Patricia that her mother was a frail, charming woman with a gentle disposition and a slight British accent. She lived alone and loved cross word puzzles, rose gardening, pink sweaters and home made jams. Once a week she would baked a pound cake, exchanged recipes with her friends and then have her hair done. And every night she fell asleep while knitting quietly by the radio.

And, like clockwork, each weekend before leaving for the island, Patricia would drop by my apartment to print out from the Internet the next week's schedule of radio programs for her kindly mother.

As Doris recovered she began sending her daughter home with baked goods for me and homemade cat treats for Gable. He, of course, would immediately scarf down his treats and then squint at me as if to say 'see, you can be replaced.'

These were sweet, small town people with gentle souls and, no doubt, my cat was right to love them. And here I was, this tarot reading, horoscope writing, psychic freak with a jaded dose of worldly cynicism: at the time I was beginning to wonder why the universe had brought them into my life.

And then, when Doris was well enough, she traveled to Vancouver. Gable, of course, was thrilled and, after eating an entire dish of homemade tuna drops, sat lovingly beside Doris purring and licking his clever paws.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," I said to Doris.

She smiled. "And you too, my dear," she said. "I feel like we are family."

"Every week your daughter comes to my apartment to print out the schedule for your radio show," I said. "You must really enjoy it."

"Oh yes, I do. It's a show called Coast-to-Coast" she replied and then sipped her tea. There was a brief pause and then she smiled sweetly, "Nazis are floridating our water, you know."

I said nothing but I am sure she must have seen the surprise on my face.

'Oh my God,' I thought. 'I have GOT TO listen to this show.'

She buttoned up her pink sweater, patted Gable on the head and nodded assuredly. I passed her a tea biscuit.

Now, I don't believe in co-incidence. And I had lived long enough to know that beginnings are very important; perhaps more important than endings. So it struck me as very odd indeed that this sweet elderly woman, as esoteric as a sensible shoe, would walk into my painfully young life and pull me headlong into the addictive world of broadcast mysticism.

After all, I had only recently decided to finally grow up, as my doting family would have me do, and become a lawyer or an academic or, god-forbid, an accountant. These things are significant, I told myself, these things are instructive: I mean, this woman could have been the flag-bearer for all my parents hopes, dreams and bothersome rants.

There was, of course, no choice: I became a professional astrologer. And Gable, my little furry explorer, well…Gable was henceforth allowed, day or night, to wander wherever his intrepid and curious heart led him.