Doing my best to manage our strong-willed cat's digestive pyrotechnics by not violating the Geneva Conventions.
On February 1, 2017, we put our house on the market. In a bold move (and having the backing of my talented real estate development attorney sister), we listed the house as a private sale.
With copious hours of House Hunters under my hat, I was prepared for the buyers who would marvel at the space for entertaining, our spacious master suite with eco-friendly carpeting, or perhaps those who would lament the absence of matching stainless steel appliances. I managed the appointments and showings with poise and grace. I was the Gracie Lou Freebush of real estate.
We sold our home for full asking price within 24 hours of listing it. At the advice of my talented sister and counsel, since we were selling first and then buying in a community 45 minutes away, I wrote into the contract that we needed 15 days after the closing date to get out. Luckily, we had a dream buyer who didn't haggle on that part.
This was no small feat considering we share our home with a seven-pound political dissident who, without a vocabulary, voices her frustration in the form of half-digestive particles, preferably on carpeted surfaces. Oh, and really dirty looks. See photo.
In those frantic weeks of boxing up our crap, finding a new house, and moving us all to a new town, we noticed a big change in our poly-dactyl feline overlord. Her gastrointestinal discomfort went up by 1,000%. This was especially troubling since technically, we didn't own this home anymore.
I once read an article about a tree in the middle of the Sahara Desert that stood for decades and served as a sole landmark for hundreds of miles. Sounds beautiful and poetic, yes? Imagine my surprise when I learned it was demolished - by a drunk driver.
This is exactly how I feel whenever I discover the cat has barfed on my carpeting or rugs, rather than the vast Sahara of hardwoods in our home.
And this behavior literally began in the blink of an eye.
In July of 2016, we were startled to find her huddled under a dresser, eyes wide in fear and pain, breathing shallow, and with a terrible guttural sound emanating from her abdomen. The hardest moment of my adult life was leaving her in the 24-hour animal emergency room overnight so they could sedate her for tests and place her in a cat hyperbaric oxygen chamber.
Since we adopted her from a shelter in 2007, she's basically been my right-pawed gal, even if she does prefer her daddy over me. But there's another group she tolerates less. Dogs. Our mild-mannered political dissident goes full on terrorist in the company of dogs. It's really embarrassing to try to explain to strangers "my cat is really not like this at home," but I suppose that's what every parent tells themselves in the face of irrational public behavior.
A whopping $1,900 later, our diagnosis came in - she has a sliding hiatal hernia, most likely she's had this her entire life, as mostly they are birth defects. We were given the option to try medication but eventually surgery would be necessary.
My husband of the "we actually have bills" mindset and I of the "the cat can only drink ice water from our fridge because that's what she likes" mentality definitely compromised on the medication route. We found a cat digestive specialist (yes, I know) and made an appointment, explaining the urgency.
This caring vet clinic actually has an entire wing of their facility dedicated to cat health, complete with plug-ins emitting delicate cat pheromones in the air, and a giant cat tree for which them to climb and perch. No dogs are permitted in the cat wing. But that doesn't really matter to tiny Naomi Campbell.
The cat was having none of it. Again, the apologies flowed out of me, completely bewildered by how obnoxious this cat was behaving. At one point, she refused to get out of the carrier, enacting her own Tom Cruise-worthy stunt of pressing all four paws against the sides and hissing at anyone who came close.
The sweet vet tech suggested we reschedule for another day as it was obvious the cat was "stressed." Join the club, sister, I just drove this jerk an hour, listening to her yowl the entire way. I took matters into my own hands and shook the carrier until she spilled out onto the floor, fur and hisses flying at will.
That day we set out to establish a medication regimen we've been following with great success. Anytime she get "stressed," we give her gabapentin (aka cat prozac) and an acid reducer, typically with instant results, but definite improvements within four to six hours.
Now, I go into this excessively long detail about my cat's mental and physical well-being to explain that last week, The Great Home Office/Writing Studio Renovation of 2019 brought on another attack.
We began the renovation on a Saturday by painting, ventured to IKEA on Monday, and throughout the week, my husband focused on the construction of the furniture. To say our downstairs was a mess was a huge understatement.
Riddle me this Batman, how does a cat who sleeps 90% of the time and scavenges our kitchen for food like a trash panda get stressed? What could possibly be difficult in her little life? Try home renovation, puss pants! Or paying taxes, or going to Kroger on a Sunday after church when people are socializing. The struggle is real!
On Wednesday, our amps went to 11 when she unleashed an exorcist-worthy pile of half-digested food in my walk-in closet. Right under my clothes. I often swear that I'll wear her as a hat one day, but truth be known, I do genuinely like this cat and become concerned for her whenever I see these tell-tale signs.
By Thursday, furbucket has stopped eating completely, and I shifted from highly annoyed to "oh crap, the cat is really sick" mode when the gurgle belly returned.
If you've ever given a cat medicine, you know the next part is just as frustrating for the parent as it is for the pet. This cat HAAAAAATES confinement, which usually takes place in our upstairs guest bedroom so she can't escape. She also HAAAAAAAAAAAATES anything that isn't chicken. This cat doesn't even like tuna. You want to hand her something? It better be off your dinner plate, period.
At our low point in 2016, we were medicating her twice a day. I don't know who won that battle, but I can safely say my husband, the cat, nor I walked away feeling accomplished. Yes, we tried giving her an oral syringe, yes, we tried the pill popper. I even tried to hide it in shredded chicken.
This cat is no dummy.
Since then, we've come up a pretty tolerable routine. We crush the pills into a powder, mix with water in a small ramekin, and basically jab this medieval toothpaste into her mouth. We use our fingers, so the worst that will happen is she bites us, which has almost never happens. Almost. She also slings her head violently, thinking she can expel this poison totally if she coats my walls, shower curtain, and me. We both apologize to her profusely, the in small hope that she does in fact speak English.
She seems to know the drill three years out and while she'll do her best Houdini impression when she hears me in the guest bathroom, we eventually catch her and remind her we know best because she's a cat and she has no protection from The Hague.
She's back to eating her regular food again, and I can't help but feel guilty for causing her distress, even though this is technically our house and she's a freeloading child who is old enough to move out by now.
Until then, we'll try to minimize disrupting her royal heinous' otherwise peaceful daily routine. After all, we work hard to provide her a better life.
Also, if anyone wants to cat sit the next time we go out of town, let me know. She's a ray of sunshine. Kara and Erica will vouche.
Thanks for reading!
~ Christy
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