My cat Harry has a brain the size of a Ping-Pong ball. He weighs eight pounds.
So when he has to go to the vet, I pack him in his cat carrier and go, right?
Oh, no. It’s far more complicated. Maybe it’s because Harry sleeps twenty hours a day – he’s much more rested than I am.
Harry, a striped tabby, is my writing buddy. Last week, he wasn’t feeling well, so took him to the vet clinic. This is traumatic for Harry. He’s a formerly feral beach cat. Contact with people outside his home is stressful. Some idiot shot his whole family. We think it was a large white man, because Harry is terrified of big white men. If any white guys visit our condo, Harry goes under the couch and hides for the rest of the day.
Fortunately, the Imperial Point Veterinary Clinic in Fort Lauderdale understands. We call ahead and ask for a female vet and tech, and the clinic caters to Harry. This time, he spent two days at the clinic for an impacted colon, which is a fancy word for constipation.
The poor little guy was dehydrated. While the clinic treated him overnight, he was kept in a special quiet area.
The vet put Harry on a high-fiber diet.
Harry also had to take a liquid medicine called Lactulose. He didn’t like it, but he swallowed the stuff.
But during the stress of getting well, Harry caught a bad virus – a cat cold. His eyes were wet and streaming. He wheezed like a rusty door. Sneezes shook his little body, and he had the snerches.
Harry went back to the clinic Monday morning for more treatment. Once again, the clinic made sure Harry saw only a woman vet and tech. His treatment included a nebulizer to help him breathe. And more medicine. Lots more.
Two liquids, a nasty yellow pill and more special food, this time to fatten him up.
Harry is now feeling better and eating more. You could say he's in fighting form. Yesterday, when Don and I tried to give Harry his medicine, it took two of us to wrestle the eight-pound cat into submission. Yes, I know about Pill Pockets and cute tricks like hiding the pill in his favorite food. That doesn’t work with Harry. He says it’s medicine and the hell with it.
Don used the ultimate weapon: a pill shooter. This device shoots the pill down the cat’s throat.
In fact, Harry sent the pill flying across the kitchen. Twice. Don got Harry to swallow the pill on the third try.
Next, it was time for the two liquid medicines, delivered in plunger-like devices.
Harry spit one milliliter into my hair. The other .75 milliliter splattered all over my shirt.
After we medicated the cat, I showered, washed my hair and then my clothes.
Don and I both have college degrees and we outweigh Harry by more than 250 pounds. But he nearly beat us.
Must be all that extra sleep.