It’s Sunday, of course. My vet just called about Larry (the little black cat bent on stealing your soul) and the medication. It’s not often a person without small children hears the question, “Is he drooling?” Why, no. No, he’s not, but thank you for asking. The cat is very clever. Until a few days ago, he slept wherever he was cozy, which was handy when I wanted to sneak up and squirt medicine down his throat. Picture this scenario:
Larry (dreaming of stealing your soul): ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
This was followed by ten minutes of apologies on my part and dirty looks on his. A few days ago, Larry took to sleeping under a side table, behind the futon or on the back of the couch. This means when he’s sitting around, being chatty in the way people who don’t actually talk are, I sneak off to the kitchen without changing the subject and come back with his medicines and an eye dropper. If the occupants of this apartment were two people and one cat, one person could subdue the cat and the other could play Annie Oakley with the antibiotics; since we’re one person and one cat, he has me outnumbered. He’s a more strategic thinker than I am, and he’s a cat.