Someone would like your attention, please.
My cats have giardia. It’s some sort of intestinal parasite common in kittens—bonus: it can pass to humans! It’s not all that big of a deal, really, but they do have to take medicine to get rid of it.
I say “they” because I don’t actually know who has it. I took in a bag of cat shit to the vet and was all, “I don’t know whose it is, but here is a bag of poop!”
I guess the rationale is that if one of them has it, all of them have it, so let’s treat everyone.
Of course, that’s great because all three of the cats are super thrilled to have me syringe liquid meds down their throats twice a day. (<—sarcasm) Something I have learned, however, is that, by FAR, Starfire is the pointiest of the cats.
See, Oreo and Ruby sort of just gave in. Sure, Oreo tries to hork up all the medicine afterward through a series of guttural coughs that are ultimately ineffective and Ruby stalks off all offended like, but I don’t feel like I’m risking, say, a finger when I medicate them.
Starfire, however, has taken the administration of medicine as both a personal affront and an individual challenge to see just exactly how badly she can scratch the hell out of me.
(Answer: kind of a lot.)
Here’s the thing though: Starfire may be able to kick my ass physically, but I am SMARTER than that small cat.
It turns out that once you incapacitate her tiny, razor sharp claws, she has no choice but to take her medicine like a good cat.
We’re five days into a ten-day/twice-a-day meds regimen and my pre-swaddling scratches are starting to heal. Starfire hasn’t figured out how to break free of her blanket burrito and I feel as if I’ve conquered the cat world.
Starfire, however, still strenuously fucking objects.