Just say no. Unless you’re a cat, apparently

I’ve never really been big into drugs. This no doubt comes as a surprise to folks who know me well and have always assumed drugs must have played at least some part in the development of my personality. But nope, I got this way all on my own.

I’ve always felt that pot, at least, should be legalized, but that doesn’t mean I’d immediately run out and buy myself a Hefty Bag full of sticky if it were. That’s another discussion, though, one better suited to somebody who writes political columns. I don’t, because I’m too thin-skinned to take the kind of mail you get when you write something like “I’ve always felt that pot, at least, should be legalized…”

So just forget I said that, OK? It doesn’t have much to do with this week’s column anyway.

Yes, this week’s column is about recreational pharmaceuticals, but not the sort enjoyed by homo sapiens (that’s you; yes, even if you’re straight). I’m talking about drugs for cats.

This year Santa brought a little something special for Fuzz, the scruffy-looking ball of fur my friend Rose talked me into taking over a year ago. Before Fuzz came along, I was never a cat person, but over the past year she’s grown on me. Like a fungus.

I’m not sure why Santa saw fit to bring Fuzz anything but coal; her whole purpose in life seems to be attacking my bare feet and trying to murder me by winding around my legs whenever I try to descend the basement steps in the dark.

There’s a reason people in the Middle Ages considered cats to be witches’ “familiars.” Even the best of them seem a little, well, evil. The human-feline alliance has always been an uneasy one, made more so by our knowledge that—if kitty were but 60 pounds heavier—we would be on the menu.

If you don’t believe me, I suggest you check out the 1957 thriller “The Incredible Shrinking Man,” in which the protagonist is reduced through exposure to radiation to the size of a mouse. The first thing his house cat does is try to eat him. Feline memories of canned food and cleaned litter boxes are not lasting, apparently.

Anyway, back to the cat dope. In Fuzz’s stocking was—among the bizzy balls and bite-sized treats—a small baggy filled with a substance that looked remarkably like something generally smoked by drummers and guys who say “dude” a lot.

Following the instructions, I crushed up a small handful of this herb and placed it on the carpet. Fuzz showed immediate interest, as if this were exactly the moment she’d been waiting for her whole life.

She sniffed it, she snorted it, she ate it, she rolled in it. Fuzz was determined to experience catnip in all its myriad permutations.

It made her crazy happy for about ten minutes, and then very, very mellow. I could almost hear the Sgt. Pepper album playing in her head.

I’m not sure what’s in catnip or why Fuzz enjoys it so much, but if they ever come out with something that works that well on homo sapiens, well, I’m going to give it a try before someone makes it illegal.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.