I have long suspected that my three cats have led secret lives apart from the banal business of Bailey housecatdom. I now have the proof:
Scenario: I found my old sports bra and a drool-soaked make-up sponge hidden behind the litter box. All three cats are called forward for questioning.
Suspect: Cosmo. I know this because he is a terrible liar and cannot look at me when I blatantly ask about his participation in such shenanigans. Notice Phoebe and Saffy's unwavering gaze as they witness their brother crumble under the stress of it all.
Despite his continued insistence of innocence, my suspicions were cemented when I happened upon a frightening vision a few nights ago. I'd arose at midnight for a glass of water and caught Cosmo primping for karaoke night at the local underground club, "Catnip Crossing." Busted!
I began to worry when Saffy didn't show up for dinner a few nights ago. I scoured the house, thinking that perhaps someone had inadvertantly trapped her in a closet. Upon entering the basement, my attention focused on frantic scratching that seemed to be coming from the corner. I followed the sound to a cardboard box in a dank, dark corner, flat against the water heater. Hesitantly, I peered inside and my worst fears were realized. Saffy stared up at me, whiskers weighed down with the stuff, her eyes finished in a fine euphoric glaze. She'd been a slave to the catnip cave all day and didn't appear to be seeking rehab anytime soon. Where did she get the money to pay for all of this nip? We certainly didn't have that kind of cash just laying around the house....
Who knew the Boggle gambling ring could be such a lucrative racket? This secret society of feline word-wagers goes as far back as ancient Egypt, where these cunning kitties tossed 4-sided chunks of heiroglyphic-scratched mudbrick, in hopes of winning a jug of catnip-infused fig wine. Nowdays, cats won't play for anything less than the straight-up pure stuff.
Q: How much catnip can be won from a single game of back-alley Boggle?
A: How many words can you find in 3 minutes?
Phoebe's behavior suddenly seemed strikingly standoffish. When I tried to cuddle and kiss her, she had that faraway look in her eyes, almost like she no longer enjoyed the cozy closeness to which she once clung.
She then developed a habit of hiding in closets and wouldn't come down for hours. When she did finally emerge, she barely spoke a word and shunned the other cats. She requested a separate litterbox in the garage and a private phone line. Our befuddlement broadened with each passing day.
One cold, fateful morning, all of our questions were answered. It turns out that Phoebe was having a long distance affair with a young tomcat in the feline professional monster truck circuit. His name was Scully, aka The Scottish Fold of Fury, and she'd been writing to him for months. She saw his picture on the back of a can of Fancy Feast and couldn't get him out of her head. She hacked into my internet account and located his fan page... the rest is history. She saw the monster truck in the box that Ben was about to wrap as a birthday gift for a friend. Naive in the ways of love and the US Postal Service, she thought if she removed the truck and inserted herself, she'd be sent directly to Scully. Busted!
I think I need to call Dr. Phil.