Drugging the Cat

We seem to have the pill popping down to a science now. Sort of. We figured out how Calvin has to be held, along with the best position for my hand to pry his jaw open and be ready with the pill popper. But there's still the problem of the cat. Nothing will make him want to cooperate. He's not fighting as hard now, at least not physically. Now he's going for pathetic to try to gain the sympathy vote. This is his common stance now when we take him into the bathroom to give him his nightly pill:



He buries his head into Steven's armpit. If he's really wanting to look pitiful, he'll even cover his face with his paw. This always garners soothing words, hugs, and kisses on his little furry head.

But he still gets the pill.

On the bright side, he really does enjoy his cornbread:



I don't think he's putting on any weight from it, but he certainly does like his treat. Punk cat has no appreciation for fine cooking, though. He'd rather eat that cheap Jiffy boxed mix than my from-scratch cornbread.

And then there's Doogie, our sweet little cat who has been such a trooper through all of this. He's the one who doesn't have to have the special diet, but he hasn't complained once since we switched him over to it to make feeding time easier. He's really just happy to be alive, fed, and loved:



However, I think he's glad that he's not the one having pills shoved down his throat every night. His sunny disposition can only go so far.