"You Can't Make Me!"
I have various cats. Some of those various cats have had medical problems from time to time. I have had to take them to the vet. Some protest little when the time comes to get into the carrier or to take medicine. I have one, that when I bring out the carrier, comes to sniff it, and even steps inside. Curiosity rules. Others, you can't even see their shadow. Survival rules.
My oldest, Matrionuxca, had a problem with an abscess and had been seeing the vet regularly for the past couple of weeks. The first time, it was easy to introduce her into the carrier; she hadn't seen it for a while. Last week was the last day she had an appointment. I tiptoed with the carrier into the kitchen, carefully, without making a sound. Even so, she spied me, and when I went to pick her up, she had her suspicions confirmed, and tried to slip away. Putting her in face first was a no-no. She stiffened into a block with strange angles and wouldn't be moved in. I had to turn her around, and, looking her in her threatening eye, push her in backward. Once esconced in the carrier, she complained loudly all the way to the vet. "Let me out of here!" "I want to go home!" "I won't forget this ignominy!" "Keep an eye out when we get home!"
Medicine was something else. The first few days, she had a pill. That was easy. Since she will lunge at food like a starving lion, I simply stuck it into one of the morsels and watched her gobble it up. The liquid medicine was something else. The first time, I got the syringe to the back of her mouth more or less easily. The second time, she had learned to use her hands, arms, and claws to push my hand away. I needed to find some armor, after I had finished bandaging the nice, long, jagged scratches she had inscribed on my hand.
So, I got one of my husband's leather work gloves. I pulled up the medicine into the syringe, put on the glove, and went in search of Matrionuxca. Once I found her hideout, my free hand went to the back of her neck to hold her still. My gloved hand tried to find her mouth with the syringe. Once the syringe made its way past the clenched teeth that made tetanus look like "softjaw", after ten minutes, I would squirt a little liquid, but not the entire amount; she didn't give me enough time. Her claws tried to transfix my hand the second time I searched out her mouth. I wasn't dealing with a cat, I was dealing with Edward Scissorhands. Despite the leather glove, I could feel the prick of her claws on my hand. Threatening growls came out of her throat. Her head twisted more than the girl in The Exorcist. Once I emptied the syringe where I thought her mouth was, she spit out all the medicine she could, spattering the floor and everything nearby and ran to find a hidy-hole. It's a good thing she's pretty healthy because half the antibiotics she was prescribed didn't make it to her stomach. But there will be no bacteria growing on the floors any time soon.
And then there are parents who complain that taking their small children to the doctor and getting them to take their medicine is nerve-wracking. They don't have cats, do they?
My oldest, Matrionuxca, had a problem with an abscess and had been seeing the vet regularly for the past couple of weeks. The first time, it was easy to introduce her into the carrier; she hadn't seen it for a while. Last week was the last day she had an appointment. I tiptoed with the carrier into the kitchen, carefully, without making a sound. Even so, she spied me, and when I went to pick her up, she had her suspicions confirmed, and tried to slip away. Putting her in face first was a no-no. She stiffened into a block with strange angles and wouldn't be moved in. I had to turn her around, and, looking her in her threatening eye, push her in backward. Once esconced in the carrier, she complained loudly all the way to the vet. "Let me out of here!" "I want to go home!" "I won't forget this ignominy!" "Keep an eye out when we get home!"
Medicine was something else. The first few days, she had a pill. That was easy. Since she will lunge at food like a starving lion, I simply stuck it into one of the morsels and watched her gobble it up. The liquid medicine was something else. The first time, I got the syringe to the back of her mouth more or less easily. The second time, she had learned to use her hands, arms, and claws to push my hand away. I needed to find some armor, after I had finished bandaging the nice, long, jagged scratches she had inscribed on my hand.
So, I got one of my husband's leather work gloves. I pulled up the medicine into the syringe, put on the glove, and went in search of Matrionuxca. Once I found her hideout, my free hand went to the back of her neck to hold her still. My gloved hand tried to find her mouth with the syringe. Once the syringe made its way past the clenched teeth that made tetanus look like "softjaw", after ten minutes, I would squirt a little liquid, but not the entire amount; she didn't give me enough time. Her claws tried to transfix my hand the second time I searched out her mouth. I wasn't dealing with a cat, I was dealing with Edward Scissorhands. Despite the leather glove, I could feel the prick of her claws on my hand. Threatening growls came out of her throat. Her head twisted more than the girl in The Exorcist. Once I emptied the syringe where I thought her mouth was, she spit out all the medicine she could, spattering the floor and everything nearby and ran to find a hidy-hole. It's a good thing she's pretty healthy because half the antibiotics she was prescribed didn't make it to her stomach. But there will be no bacteria growing on the floors any time soon.
And then there are parents who complain that taking their small children to the doctor and getting them to take their medicine is nerve-wracking. They don't have cats, do they?
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