I’m finally admitting it — to myself, to my family, to the world.

I once was like many of you, watching Oprah and Montel and 20/20 and all the other talk shows, their episodes about how you might be missing the vital signs, how it can go on in your house right under your nose without you having a speck of a clue. I always said to myself, “That’s not us. That’s not this family. We’re not like that. Maybe the folks down the street, sure — I mean, look what they have for a car AND they eat Coco-Puffs. But not us. Never.”

A thought, however, kept creeping into my mind that I was dismissing the obvious. I was ignoring the elephant in the living room, and once I started to realize the painful truth, it stuck out like a sore thumb. And now I’m here to admit it, in full, without trepidation:

Our cat is on crack.

I know, I know, I can hear you gasping from here. I, too, was shocked. But it is clearly obvious that my cat, my dear, sweet, fluffy, orangey, mrowring Leo has been hitting the nose frosting, and a bit too frequently lately. Mom, please don’t cry.

I have evidence that he has been under the influence from his many, many instances of strange behavior:

• Running erratically around the main floor, desperately in search of Jack M. Squat, failing to find him, and then standing in the middle of nowhere, meowing in a confused manner for no apparent reason.
• Suddenly leaping forth in a crazed haze onto the back of the couch and perching there like a squirrel with a bladder problem and then, after a few minutes, calmly letting himself back down onto the seat and curling into a furry donut.
• Staring, for the entire length of a shower, at the concrete floor of the basement as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire world.
• Meowing as if in pain while I towel myself off from said shower. I swear he thinks the water is out to kill me.
• Proceeding to take a freshly vacuumed dark green carpet on the upstairs landing and spend the entire night ripping large wads of fur from his nether regions and spreading them in a seemingly random constellation on the pile.
• Attempting to leap onto the window sill but failing to realize that the window was closed, thus creating a feline billiard ball.
• Rubbing himself up against each and every person that walks through my door. I take that back, rubbing would be a kind word to use. Vigorously humping would probably be a better term. My cat doesn’t just scream for attention, he yodels and does a jig at the same time, all while in lederhosen.

And to think that I ignored it all!

I did, that was, until tonight. Tonight Leo was lazily stretching his claws on the bottom step of our stairs, which is usually a clue to his dumbass owner to flip over the cardboard scratchpad that we have in the corner for him.

Now, I don’t know if you have ever seen one of these things. They’re lovely. Completely made out of cardboard, they are a few feet long and are sprinkled liberally with dried catnip. They cost about $3000 less than new carpet and couches and last for a few months.

So, I did my best and flipped the pad over, exposing a new, fresh surface on which to sharpen (were they ever dull?) those little personal hypodermic needles of his. This exposed a large amount of hitherto unexplored catnip.

After about 10 minutes or so, the cat discovered the freshened implement and walked over to it. The next action convinced me that my cat was on smack:

He proceeded to EAT the catnip.

And I’m not talking about an experimental nibble or two. No, I’m talking about Going-To-Town-on-the-Downhill-Nuclear-Express-Bus. He sat ontop of the pad and systematically licked off the catnip from the top surface with a gusto that can only be approximated by some poor sap in a desert finding some sort of liquid refreshment sitting in the cleavage of a bikini-stropped blonde in a swimming pool at the end of the next sand dune.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed and snagged my deranged pet as he got a look of consternation on his fuzzy mug for interrupting his virulent activity.

“What the fuzzy FUCK are you doing!?” I yelled as I went face-to-face with him, shaking his paws. “Who gave you the crack? Hrm?? WHO!?!?” The cat proceeded to give me a wet noseprint on the glasses and then turn his attention elsewhere, which generally means, “You can let me down now OR your arms can approximate a garden sprinkler system. Your choice.” I decided to let him go for the moment.

Befuzzled, I sat back and tried to think where I went wrong as a pet owner. Was it the late night feedings just before bed? The ear-rubbings I had given copiously on the basement floor? The use of the cat as a mop on the hardwood? I just couldn’t think where this evil might have entered my house.

I checked his food, just in case I accidentally ordered the, “with crack” version of his Rat Kibbles & Private Bits (or whatever they sell at the vet center that keeps his pee stalactite-free and costs the GNP of a small country). Nope, definately the correct version. Perhaps his waterer? Maybe someone at a frat party (Alpha Kitty Alpha) had slipped something into it? No, it tested clear and fresh. Hrm…the litter box? EUREKA!

I am now convinced that the dust that arises from the litter box when I refill it is NOT baking soda as the container proclaims, but is indeed freshly-sauced Columbian baby powder. My cat has been getting a paw-to-bloodstream hit every time he buries his treasure. Those bastards.

No wonder he takes so many dumps.