Everything, Everything Will Be All Right, All Right

A few weeks ago, I took Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, to the vet because to my nose the scent of his breath had changed. He's got the feline leukemia. The vet told me awhile ago: all bets are off; feed Senor whatever Senor will eat. When Senor's breath smells more cabbagy and less fishy, we go to the office. It's traumatic for us both but he gets clipped toenails.

Since I am the pussycat pedestal and jungle gym, that's really more for me, isn't it? Yeah.

Usually stuffing the cat into the cat carrier results in scratching, contusions and crying but I eventually get over it, too. In the car, truly pathetic mewing causes me to wheedle.

Tata: It's okay. We're almost there. And then...well, don't think about that part - but we're going home soon!
Cat carrier: Mew!
Tata: We're almost there, and then you can see the nice doctor. Okay, you hate the doctor but he likes you a bunch. Yes! Yes, he does!
Cat carrier: Mew!
Tata: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

For his part, the cat's not happy either. Some people are good at crying; I look and feel like my face is having some sort of watery techtonic episode. The office is not like any other veterinarian I've been to: on the counter, cats sleep. There's a little dog standing guard on the files. A gerbil sits on a shelf. When I arrive at the desk, a cat sniffs me before the staff gets a chance to look up. You know these people and this doctor genuinely care about their patients. The woman at the desk is new and hasn't met us. Her hair is vibrant electric blue. She escorts us to an examination room and weighs Senor, who growls by force of habit.

The doctor holds the feline jaw firmly and exposes teeth. The feline expresses his displeasure verbally but does not actively resist. The doctor asks the blue-haired assistant to step in and assist him. They take turns fending off kitty self-defense efforts and clipping his nails - the cat's. An astounding thing happens. Something she does gently - something I don't see, though I can see both her hands - causes Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, to sit peacefully even after the vet and his assistant leave. I stare. I encourage him to climb back into the cat carrier. By "encourage" I mean "shove him inside with the flats of my hands." He is calm and utterly unimpressed.

Tata: What's the matter with you, huh?
Cat carrier: Mew!
Tata: That's...better?

I struggle for a week and a half to medicate the pussycat twice a day with antibiotics and his normal daily Pediapred, which smells like a disgusting cherry pastiche to real fruit and real medicine. He gets medicine in moist cat food gravy, on sliced ham, in the water keeping boiled shrimp wet. Twice a day, I anxiously put out a little bowl of something and coo at Senor.

Tata: It's a treat! A delicious treat! For you!
Kittyface: What, you were out of prime rib?
Tata: Cats don't eat cows! Cats like cows.
Kittyface: In gravy. I love 'em.

About a week ago, I saw a sign in the Highland Park Drug Fair advertising pediatric medicine flavors. I march right to the counter and asked the burning question.

Tata: Can you make concoctions taste like meat?
Pharmacist: Ask your vet.
Tata: Ask my vet what?
Pharmacist: To prescribe it.

I love my vet to the bottoms of his comfy shoes. I love him for his devotion to his patients and their people. I love him him for all the extra care he's given to my pet friends since Miss Sasha had mysteriously addled guinea pigs in the eighties. I love him. In this moment, I sincerely wanted to roll up some newspaper and bonk him on the nose. I've been tricking my cat into taking kiddie steroids for years and the vet knows this because he's prescribed them and he knows I've fretted over every dose I couldn't get into our sick friend and it never occurred to the doctor he might prescribe the steroids in yummy fish flavors?

Arrrrrrgh. The good news: maybe next week I won't have to hover over Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul while he turns up his nose at life-giving snacks of tasty joy. It's progress, no matter how long it took. Let's hope meaty medicine is the kind of yucky stuff cats love.