My cat Hunter is in heart failure. She gets two pills a day, twice a day. She doesn’t like taking them, but she is the easiest cat I’ve ever had to give medicine to.
She is, however, a drama queen. One of the pills has to be crushed up and mixed with water and then squirted down her throat using a plastic syringe. Before I do that, I drop the other, more important pill, as far into her mouth as I can. The idea is that the liquid medicine will wash the pill down.
She slobbers, she drools, sometimes she manages to spit the whole, important pill out.
She runs and hides and sometimes wears me out trying to catch her.
I’ve learned if I sit down and check my phone messages, she comes to me.
This morning I was doing that and when she came to me and then realized it was medicine time, she hopped onto the window sill. I’m sure, as she was being given her medicine that she wanted the whole world to see what she had to endure to be my cat. And she was exactly right. She must endure taking her medicine, or she will likely die. She’s my cat. The drama queen. The one who bears my indignities as I hold open her mouth and give her medicine twice a day.
The dog got jealous (sick too) and I took her to the vet. She is mastering the art of spitting her pill out as well. Thank goodness there will be an end to dosing her. She only has three weeks worth of meds to take. I hide hers in bites of vienna sausage. So far she hasn’t climbed up into the window to let the world see what she endures to be my dog. She has, however, spit her pill out a few times. I just stick it into another bite of vienna sausage and try again.