Kitty Cocaine

A recent drug bust by the police garnered considerable media attention. It's disquieting to think drug dealers are operating in one's own neighbourhood, outrageous to consider they may be actually cooking it up right there next door.

But what was apparently particularly shocking in this case, was that this could be happening to rich people, in trendy and expensive homes. Why, minor celebrities live there, too. Keith Quin might well have been one of these poor folk evacuated from their homes in the early morning, forced to stand around on the pavements in dressing gowns and slippers. The tone of most articles seemed to suggest that it was remiss of the police to allow this to happen within a stone's throw of the central police station, and to people who had spent millions on their apartments. How very sobering to be confronted with the reality that a large bank balance doesn't guarantee insulation from the seedier side of life. 

The reality is, it's everywhere. Even in pleasant Petone, as good as life is, it's not all long beach walks and lattes. The dealers are there, and they hook in the unsuspecting with ease. They are cunning. The first hit is always free. And so it was in Collins Street - there in the letter box, delivered for the drug overlords by a mere child. 

And now poor William Patrick is in the grip of a full-blown addiction. We are buying in bulk, because it is too scary to consider being without a fix when he demands it.

Like all drug users his personality is changing. He was once a regular, hoity feline who feigned deafness and came and went as he pleased, conferring affection on his own terms. He was his own cat, proud and independent. Now he is reduced to scrambling at the shake of the bag and purring in unseemly gratitude. We just hope this isn't a gateway drug to stronger forms of catnip.