I walked home and locked my door to keep any more cats from escaping. It was the first time in sixteen and a half years that I’d been in my apartment without her being there, except for maybe one other time when she had an ultrasound when I must have left her at the vet’s and come home to get my bicycle to ride to work.
I pretended she was gone for good and saw how every room had reminders of her: her food and water in the kitchen; her litter box in the bathroom; her stuffed-toy collection in the living room, along with the cat nest and the cardboard box she likes to sit in that once held ten reams of paper; the extra bags of cat litter in the closet.
In an hour, I walked back to retrieve her. The tests had ruled out any large cancer, leaving as likely possibilities irritable bowel syndrome or low-grade lymphoma. The only way to be sure is with a $1600 endoscopy, but, as it happens, the two conditions are treated almost the same way, anyway, so Dr. Press said to start Prednisone. The office visit and tests cost $440 (plus $10 for cabs). Good thing this didn’t happen during the era of working at nonprofits.
Her belly was wet with something or other and she smelled like a hospital patient, not bad, just not like herself. In the evening, I felt something rough on her stomach and thought maybe the wet fur had become stiff when it dried, but it turned out it was her bare belly with a little bit of soft stubble. It would be nice if they mentioned beforehand that they were going to shave her, just so the owner won’t be startled or in case the cat is about to be in a beauty contest.
I must now give her a pill each day. I’ve been reading about it online and saw this video where a guy gently tips his cat’s face up with a hand under the cat’s chin. He puts the pill in a pill shooter (see below) and touches the cat’s mouth with the rubber tip. The cat then obligingly opens its jaws gapingly wide and the owner pops the pill in. The whole thing takes five seconds. Obviously a doctored video.
At my place, I wrap Thelonious in a towel and grip her between my legs. I already have the pill in the pill shooter, which is a plastic tube with a plunger and a rubber tip which temporarily holds the pill. I grasp Thelonious’s head from the top and pull it back, worrying that I’m going to break her neck. She frantically frees her front feet from the towel and starts clawing in all directions. I rewrap her in the towel several times, getting more flustered and upset with each iteration.
There is yelling and swearing. I consider hiring someone to come over and do this task.
I wrap her very snugly in the towel, worried that I’m cutting off her air supply, as the towel goes right up to her neck, though it’s no tighter at her neck than anywhere else. I pull her head back with my left hand, using the tips of my fingers to part her jaws a bit, and try to work the tip of the pill shooter in at the side of her mouth with my right hand. She tries to chew the tips off my left fingers, though I’m sure not in a spirit of malice.
The tip of the pill shooter sort of goes in. I push the plunger and let go of her, hoping the pill went down. It didn’t—she spits it out on the floor. After a couple more tries, I flush the soggy pill down the toilet and go get another pill. This time I remember to hold her jaw closed after pressing down the plunger—worrying that I’m holding too tightly and hurting her—until she seems to have swallowed. Then I let go and examine her for signs of a broken neck and cry a little bit.
Last night was horrible, but presumably it will get easier and my technique will improve. I imagine I will now have to give her at least one pill every day for the rest of her life. I called the vet’s office this morning to see if it would be OK if I gave her a small fish treat after each pill, and they said that should be fine. (She eats prescription food and I didn’t want to interfere with her therapeutic regime.)
In other news, I think it would be very nice if Whole Foods would carry vegan marshmallows.
No comments:
Post a Comment