[If you’re new around here, let me catch you up: We have a cat. We got him from the local animal rescue about two years ago, and he –without a doubt– is one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made. Picture living with a short, excessively hairy, continually drunk frat boy. A drunken frat boy who wanders around the house all night, wanting in and out. He pees where he wants and he sleeps all day. He refuses to get a job and yet, just when I’m about to have our pastor shoot the godforsaken beast and use it as a sermon illustration, he gets unbelievably sweet and lovable. He lets two-year olds chase him around the house and flops down in the middle of parties and lets guests adore him.
And also, our twelve-year-old daughter, Beanie, adores him. This is where our story begins.]
There is one person in the house who loves Captain Kitty with wild abandon, and that person is Beanie. Two of the other people in the house have neutral feelings about him, and the final person, Poopsie, wishes him dead on a daily basis.
It’s just that Poopsie has standards for her home, and the
drunken frat boy cat doesn’t seem to understand the situation. For example, Poopsie is not a fan of her basement smelling like cat urine. She doesn’t approve of black gobs of cat hair covering the carpet, and that cat food and litter all over the floor really isn’t doing much for her, either.
And yet Poopsie isn’t a cruel monster, so when it became apparent this week that Captain Kitty really wasn’t feeling well, she became concerned. There was obviously blood in the spot where he’d tinkled on the carpet and he was acting all mopey and sad.
In the morning she dropped Beanie and Pheanie off at school and stopped into the local vet. No appointments were available, but that didn’t stop Poopsie from going home and trying to shove the cat in his carrier box anyway. She planned to drive him around to other vets who may take mercy on the kitty and see him without an appointment.
But no. Captain Kitty was not excited about this plan and proved once again that one woman is no match for a twelve pound cat who isn’t in the mood to be shoved into a plastic box. Poopsie finally gave up, left food and water in the garage, and wondered if she would come home to a dead pet.
She wasn’t entirely upset at the idea, as you can imagine. She came up with several plans to make up for the pain and suffering Beanie would inevitably experience. She priced out new pools, considered getting new, less stupid kittens, and also reminded herself of all the cats that died when she was a young girl. Farm life is hard on cats, what with the constant threats of traffic, tractors, and illness. Beanie’s suburban life was sparing her from important life lessons.
But Captain Kitty continued to live until an appointment could be secured for him. The family took him to the vet, all together. Popsie and Poopsie manuevered him into his crate and Beanie and Pheanie flanked him in the van on the ride to the office. The family cooed sweet things at the poor thing as he shook and panted in the box.
The staff at the office was kind and capable, and the veterinarian started talking about how to give Captain Kitty his pills. Popsie and Poopsie started shooting each other looks, because this was obviously the stupidest thing they’d ever heard. The cat won’t eat food that falls off his dish, there was no way he was going to take a tablet. The vet, a wonderful and professional man, demonstrated the technique.
Here we have the pills and the supposed instrument that will keep Poopsie from getting her finger bitten off in the process.
Captain Kitty spit the tablet back out and promptly began to foam at the mouth. While an assistant held the cat, the vet took four more tries before the medicine finally disappeared down the gullet like it was supposed to. This had nothing to do with the vet’s ability; it only demonstrates the stubbornness this cat is capable of. The veterinarian smiled and said, “Good luck with that one!”
Popsie and Poopsie groaned inside, and with the telepathic communication developed over their sixteen year marriage, they both knew it just wasn’t going to happen. They might as well train the cat to tango; there was no way on God’s green earth they could give the cat that medicine.
Lucky for Beanie, her beloved kitty is responding well to the antibiotic shot the vet gave him and seems to be feeling better. The pills are going to be crushed and hidden in some tuna, and if that doesn’t work– well then too darn bad.
Beanie might be getting a new pool to make up for her pain and suffering soon; Poopsie will keep you posted.