I dislike giving Tucker his pills. He needs three a day for four weeks. They are to destroy the infection in his urinary tract. I have to hold him in my lap, nearly upright, so he doesn’t choke on the pill, which I try to get him to swallow with short, mild bursts of water from a fat syringe. He knows when it’s time for his pills. Sometimes he hides, very ineffectively, behind a cat-post. Usually, however, he just cringes, as if attempting to bury himself in a couch or bed, wherever he may be at the time. This is what I see when it comes time to give him his medicine.
But what I love about this teddy bear of a cat is his unquenchable gladness at being loved. Seconds after a pill is forced down his throat, sometimes with water spilled down his chest, all the while being grasped in an uncomfortable position, he can be purring. He holds no grudges and carries no chips on his barely discernible shoulders. A trusting little creature, he has no idea why I do to him what I must do, yet he knows that I continue to be his friend. Three years ago, a family gave him up because he was wetting where he shouldn’t. He still does when he has an infection or is under extreme stress. But I could never get rid of him for that or any other reason. That’s why I give him his pills, as much as I dislike it. I want him to stay with me a very long time. Forever would be nice.