Pet Therapy

I am not sure why I am crying.

Yes, I am. I am completely overwhelmed. I feel horribly guilty.  I adopted Trinket to take care of her and give her a better life than she'd have as a stray. And I haven't. Well except for the fact that I've fattened her up and she doesn't have to scrounge for her meals.  But that is the only thing I can check off the list.

I drive home expecting her to be cranky and ill-tempered. She is not. She is one of those pets that looks up at you and makes you think she appreciates the effort.  And returns the favor when it is you that is under the weather by curling up along side of you (and not just because you are running a 105 degree fever and feel nice and toasty). My guilt grows in leaps and bounds. I don't deserve such a nice pet. I deserve an aloof picky eater who scratches my furniture, and knocks over priceles heirlooms and uses my antique settee as a toilet.

For the rest of the day, Trinket sits by my side curled up on a pillow as I watch football.  She keeps my spot warm when I get up to stir the chili or get a new beer.  She is purring and sweet even if she is oozy and sticky in a way that kind of grosses me out. Again, I don't deserve her.

As the week goes on, Trinket progresses. The scratching subsides and so the leprosy starts to go away.  But don't ask her to take the damn antihistamine pills.  I cut the pill in half. I hold my breath and roll it in the salmon flavored pill pocket that has the texture of Silly Putty and probably tastes as good.   Then I get salmon flavored yuck all under my nails as I dig out the pill and roll it in the chicken falvored Silly Putty after she turns her keen little pink nose up at the salmon. 

We scrape our paws around the Chicken putty like we are attempting to cover our own feces. It is that appealing. 

I crush the pill and sprinkle it in tiny bit of warmed chicken. Actual chicken. Actual chicken that is fit for human consumption!  No dice.

I open a can of tuna in oil (a crowd favorite) and grind the second half of the pill into it.  Trinket dives in, then after two miniscule bites, smacks her kitty lips and looks at me like I must be kidding. 

I will not attempt a flea bath right now.  No sir. I've aggravated my finicky little feline enough. Submerging her in water will be the straw that breaks her camel's back for sure.

Or so I think. Actually, the real final straw is yet to come.

Tuesday afternoon while I am at work, Scott texts me. 

"Kitten is ready to come home. Are you sure you want him?" 

I have my hands full. My cat is on quarrantine. I have a flea infestation problem.  Am I insane?

I text him back.

"Yes!" so he doesn't sense my doubt. And then I make a note to return to the pet store for more flea killing chemicals to bomb my house with.  Mama's bringing home a new baby.