I used to say, "Life is too short to stuff a mushroom."
I learned that lesson after I decided in a moment of insanity to serve hors d'oeuvres that included crab-stuffed mushrooms one night. My recipe called for mixing up a crab paste and then adding in the chopped-up stems from the mushrooms before filling the mushrooms. Never again. What I gained in hostess points, I lost in patience.
I've just expanded my definition to read, "Life is too short to stuff a mushroom OR to medicate a cat."
I ended up taking Bobbin to the vet Saturday morning where he received an antibiotic shot, and I received a fourteen-day supply of oral meds for his burgeoning case of bordetella.
It's freaking amazing how powerful a twenty-pound cat can be when he doesn't want to do something. IF YOU CAN EVEN FIND HIM.
My old-standby method has always been to wrap the cat in a heavy bathtowel (strait jacket style). With the feline legs (and claws) restrained, dealing with the fangs is not such a big deal. You simply pull the head directly backward, and the mouth pops open. Works every time.
Bob quickly sussed out my medication schedule (7:00 AM and 7:00 PM). Since I served cat breakfast and dinner at 6:30 AM and 6:30 PM, he'd eat and run. For several days, I spent thirty minutes morning and night searching for him under beds and inside bathroom cabinets (he stands on his hind legs, hooks his claws into the top of the cabinet door seam and pops the cabinet open. Fortunately he hasn't yet figured out that he needs to close the cabinet door behind him).
Being flexible, I reworked the eating schedule to medicate first, eat later.
Of course, that change in schedule upset Tribble and Dinah, who are now maintaining a Greek chorus of complaint while I'm trying to medicate Bob. Sensing their support, he began howling like a banshee each time I carried him toward the table on which I usually medicate him.
What makes it worse is that Bob really does adore me. He follows me around like a dog and, when I sit at my laptop, he worships at my altar by licking my bare toes or my fingers when I reach down to pet him.
I'll get the antibiotic into him, give him a dog liver treat (don't ask), feed everyone and head for my computer. Half the time, he ignores his food to follow me to my computer and try his own version of the rite for reconciliation. He starts by rubbing against my bare legs, then stands on his hind legs and bats my elbow with his head and, finally, jumps up into my lap. He stands on his back legs and rubs my cheek with his face as if to say, "I don't know why you're so angry with me, but I love you anyway."
Makes me feel like a heel.
Only eight more days to go.
Read on. This is a two-post day.