What to do in an emergency

Yesterday morning at 8 a.m. I was unceremoniously roused from a deep slumber by pounding on the door and the incessant ringing of my doorbell. I had been dreaming I was on the beach in Aruba. I had just emerged from the water wearing a bathing suit that made me look like Sally Fields in her Gidget days. George Clooney, Robert Redford and Paul Newman, amazingly vibrant for a dead man, were all hitting on me.
Smiling, I lay in bed for a few minutes, confusing the doorbell with the chime on the cooler of the Brighton Beach good humor man. Unable to make sense of the pounding, I belatedly realized someone was at my door. I threw on a tee shirt and elastic waist pants, screamed, "Just a minute," and sprinted to the door.
The sprint was actually more of a lope and between my bed and the door, I had ample time to panic. Was there a fire? A gas leak? An umbrella illegally left in the hall? Upon opening the door, I knew it was worse than I had imagined. At my door, was a SWAT team consisting of Frank, the handyman, and two porters, Kashaf and Valentin. Under ordinary circumstances, nothing short of a twenty dollar bill could entice any one of them to appear at my door. And now three of them, without any cash inducement on my part, were staring at me stone-faced. I trembled, certain that the Board President, who coveted my apartment, had exercised her considerable clout and offered them a princely sum to rough me up.
Frank spoke. "You have a cat, right?"
"Yes," I responded, wondering what transgression my 17 year old indoor cat could have committed. Had he stolen my neighbor's tuna fish while I was at work?
"Is that him?" Frank asked, pointing down the hall to an orange cat, who was unperturbedly licking his balls..
"No, my cat is black," I said.
"Do you know whose he is, then?" Frank inquired.
"Not a clue." I don't even know who my neighbors are, let alone what their cats look like.
Stumped, they called the building CEO, John, the super.
When my kitchen cabinets fell down, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
When my toilet was overflowing and flooding my bedroom, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
For a misplaced cat,however, which would require no labor on his part, he was both in the building and in front of my door.
"No," said John,"I have no idea whose cat it is."
The SWAT team scratched their collective head and regarded me silently, but beseechingly. I knew they wanted me to take in the orange cat so they could proceed to their first coffee break of the day, but I was resolute. Providing even temporary shelter to this cat would cause my 17 year old feline to drop dead or worse, use the living room carpet as a litter box. The crisis resolved when a kind neighbor from another floor magically materialized and offered to take in the red cat until its owner could be found.
This incident brought to mind the Smothers Brothers. They had a routine in which Tommy sang, "I fell into a vat of chocolate. I fell into a vat of chocolate."
Dick asked, "What did you do when you fell into the chocolate."
"I hollered, FIRE!" Tommy said.
"Why did you holler, 'FIRE?'"
Who would come to my rescue if I hollered, "CHOCOLATE."
Now, in the event my cabinets collapse, my toilet overflows or there is an imminent explosion, I know how to get the building staff to respond immediately. I'll holler, "CAT!"