So, the other night, our 132 combined years of human experience sprawled out on our stomachs in the kitchen as part of a valiant and ultimately successful rescue mission.

She held the flashlight which illuminated the inches-high crevice between the bottom of the stove and the floor. I held the yardstick, which would slide beneath the oven and guide a forlorn creature — of the genus musculus saginati — out of the scary dark to safety.

We looked ridiculous.

Despite the absurd tableau that we’d created, we did manage to learn a few things from this Indiana Jones escapade.

First — and we can’t stress this enough — unless it is absolutely necessary, it’s best NOT to look under your stove. There’s flotsam and jetsam of who-knows-what origin lurking there and, should you find it necessary to maneuver an unfortunate item back out (whether by yardstick or, subsequently, wooden shish-kabob skewer), all sorts of cosmic dust will be more than willing to emerge as well.

Next, if you are the type of childless cat person who uses tiny stuffed mice as a distraction to keep kittens from too-closely investigating your turkey scallopini, it is best to procure toy rodentia of unusual size, so as not to make it easier for them to be wedged in the inches-high crevice beneath the stove.

This applies, as well, to the refrigerator … under which we also advise you not to look, unless discovering where that stray broccoli crown went is on your to-do list.

While we’re at it, it is best to refrain from assuming facts not in evidence when dealing with such a situation. In this case, that means just because you see an expected — not to mention uncomfortable — obligation in feline parenting, that the offspring in question actually will understand it as a training exercise.

While you are telling them not to do that to the stuffed mouse, what they’re hearing is “Cool, I can slide this into the crevice and they’ll get down to get it for me .. SO I CAN DO IT AGAIN!”

And again. And again. And …

Finally — and we cannot stress this enough — it’s a far-sight easier to sprawl out 132 combined years of humanity onto the floor than it is to reverse said process.

As much apparent glee as the kittens had putting us through Pavlovian classical conditioning, they seemed equally amused by the sight (and sound) of our attempts to get back on all-twos again.

And again. And again. And …

Speaking of pet peeves, we were driving down McAndrews the other day, talking about how simple it was for our new housemates to control our actions when the driver ahead of us — doing their best Toonces impression — sidled over to the left-hand turn lane, decided against it, and pulled back in front of us with an apparent lack of the understanding of potential consequences.

A national survey released last month said that, overall, Oregon had the second-worst drivers in the country. I tend not to put much stock in such studies (unless, of course, they come in handy for professional purposes), but it did remind me of the old saw repeated by every driver’s ed instructor and frustrated father and “funny” uncle whoever dispensed vehicular wisdom.

Of all the parts of an automobile, the most unreliable is the nut holding the steering wheel.

Why is it so difficult for drivers to avoid taking risks through improvisation under dangerous circumstances? I mean, it’s not as though humans don’t have the capacity to perform other ritualistic endeavors ingrained through repetitive training.

Then again, that flashed across my mind as I sprawled on the kitchen floor and employed the flashlight and shish-kabob skewer to retrieve musculus saginati — and a few elbow macaroni — from under the refrigerator.

Now if I could only get up.