Part Two: Boris and the Big Yellow Pills

This follows yesterday's post of our visit to the vet....

Part Two

I tried to explain that Boris doesn't DO pills. The vet took a semi-smug tone and began to explain how to give a cat a pill, see, hold his head back like this, and then push the pill with your fingers right to the back of the throat...At this point, I held up my hand to stop him.

Yes, yes, I knew all this, but Boris is a trickster and can not only hide a pill in his cheek or under his tongue, he can spit it out a few feet, sometimes several minutes after I've given it to him. The vet clearly didn't believe me, perhaps thinking me a wuss. So he smiled at me, benignly, and asked if I'd like him to do it.

Sure, says I. Give it your best shot.

While I held him from behind (the cat, not the vet) we got Boris to open his mouth and the vet quickly slid the pill down his throat, and looked at me with a satisfied smile. See? Easy as...whoa. Hang on there sport. Boris started to foam and salivate like a rabid animal. And he spat the pill onto the examining table. Saliva was now pouring out of his mouth, and before the vet could soak it up (eventually using THREE paper towels) Boris shook his head sending a thick arc of cat goober into my face, the vet's jacket and, to my daughter's horror, across the room onto her bare legs. Oh, that's normal, says he. Those pills are quite bitter.

More attempts, and after several tries we finally got Pill Number One to go down and stay down. However, there was still the issue of Pill Number Two. Boris, naturally, was wise to us now and was getting quite a bit more feisty. The vet pulled out a secret weapon. A long syringe with a rubber cup to hold the pill which in theory allows one to both give the pill and avoid injury to soft tissue like fingers.

The vet picked up the second bitter little pill. Boris didn't move, but as I held him I could feel his muscles tensed for fight or flight, or both.

Well, sadly, that state-of-the-art syringe was no match for a large cat in a bad temper so reinforcements were called in, in the form of a lovely assistant with a blue sparkle gem imbedded in her canine. (Her canine tooth, not her dog. I have no idea if her dog has jewelry encrusted teeth, it's just that since this is taking place in a veterinary office, I could see how one might be confused.) So again, I held Boris from behind, gripping his front legs firmly, the sparkling assistant pried his mouth open after some effort, and the vet took aim with the syringe. Well, Boris didn't take too kindly to that approach either, and he exploded in fury and panic, using his back legs to claw his way free, his head a paroxysm of gagging and spitting yet more saliva and the second pill.

I was beginning to think that the only way we were going to get him to accept this pill was either under general anesthetic or if he was encased in cement with only his head showing, and even then, my money would be on The Boris. After several more attempts and the odd scratch, we got him to "accept" Pill Number Two. As we mopped up the room and our brows, the vet revealed that he and his wife, also a vet, had a cat for 13 years and not once, in all those years, were either of them able to give him a single pill.

"Be careful driving home," were his parting words. Oh, and also, "these pills often cause vomiting so watch for that." I couldn't bring myself to ask what we were supposed to do if the pills made another appearance on the way home.

Boris has recovered, although this morning, as he was peacefully eating his breakfast, I accidentally rattled the door of his crate and the sound made him tear across the room to the back door in a blind panic. I've given him post dramatic stress disorder and he's not a forgiving boy. Time to open a tin of tuna to make it up to the old man.

Visiting the Vet or I Told You So Day

It was time for our Annual Pet Check Up so I decided to save myself some travel time and I booked my dog and two cats for one joint visit. Pretty smart, I thought. Piece of cake. They all get along at home, so why not bundle them together? I decided to take Youngest Daughter with me so I could get them from car to waiting room. Buddy was on his leash, and the two cats were in two crates.

For reasons unknown, over the past few years Buddy has evolved from being a fairly high energy yet reasonably normal dog into a neurotic nightmare when we go into a public building and there are people around. It seems the more acoustically rich the location, the more vocal he becomes. He doesn't bark so much as "talk" in a way not unlike a yodeler swallowing jello shots and reciting the alphabet. Give that pooch a marbled floor and walls, like in our local bank, and within seconds he's positively operatic. My girls learned that the hard way when they stopped at the Instabank and left humiliated and cashless.

So today, Youngest and I got to the reception room and Bud whipped himself into his usual lather. He began his bow wow yippy yippy yay solo which would have been comical if it wasn't so mortifying. He literally tipped his head back and formed little "o's" with his mouth, then chewed air and ranted like a mad dog. Worse, oh so much worse, is after a few minutes of this, he sucked in air through his nose, over and over, with laboured breathing and great loud snorts and grunts like a truffle-hunting pig, which alarmed everyone except his owners (who are so used to it they feign ignorance or claim it's a rare medical condition too bad, so sad but he won't die on the spot, despite all evidence to the contrary so just ignore it.) He may, in fact, be possessed.


We finally charged into the examining room, bashing cages into door frames as Buddy lunged and jumped all over the vet. That's because he got a cookie there, once, years ago, and anytime anyone feeds him anything, it imprints on his brain and from that moment on, that person is nothing but a giant snack machine.

What he didn't remember was that he also needed to have his annual anal probe to empty his anal sacs, hence the cookies, used as a distraction. I may have forgotten to mention this detail to Youngest when she agreed to accompany me. She watched in mute horror from the corner chair as the vet used his BARE HANDS to examine Buddy, and by "examine" I mean he jammed his index finger up where the sun don't shine, which sent Buddy's yowling up an impressive octave. The resulting liquid was most foul, the stench overpowering in the tiny room. I looked over at Youngest, and her expression told me she had definitively crossed veterinary science off her list of potential career options. Before I could protest, the vet slapped on a liberal application of faux mango soap to Buddy's nether bits, which meant Buddy now smelled like two noxious odours.

Kicia the tiny white cat was a piece of cake. At seven pounds, she was easy to placate (once we pried her off my shoulders.)

Boris.....well, Boris is Boris. At almost sixteen pounds, he's all muscle and attitude. He tolerates much of the indignities without moving or making a sound, things like injections or wound cleanings. But then the vet said he needed a pill. Two pills, actually.
To be continued.....