Pop!

There’s a technique to pilling an unwilling cat, or so they tell you. If you search for videos on the subject, you will find the topic is so common, it’s practically a genre. It goes like this…

A perky and suspiciously unharmed vet will say, “Y’all have been asking how to pill a cat, so today we’re going to give Buttercup his pills and show you how it’s done.” The video then cuts to a shot of Buttercup who is sitting there waiting for the next thought to arrive. One is instantly suspicious of course. Buttercup isn’t just calm he’s either tranquilised or experiencing some kind of nirvana-level transcendence. The vet picks Buttercup up like he’s a half-filled hot water bottle and plops him down on the examination table.

“You want to give your cat a few good strokes, really get that purr going.” Buttercup sounds like an idling Harley. “Grasp the head like so, tilt it back so the mouth comes open, and pop!” – that’s the word they use, pop! – “the pill at the back of the throat. Then we’re going to gently hold the mouth closed and stroke the throat till… it goes down”. You get the feeling that Buttercup could go on popping pills all day long. It would explain a lot about his demeanour.

The reason we were watching videos of vets pilling cats is that we had a cat – cat #3, who is a chaos goblin – and we had some pills and we had to get the latter into the former. It wasn’t the first time we’d pilled a cat, but he had just spent a week at the vet’s on life support and had, despite his brush with death and much diminished state, still managed to terrorise a whole team of professional veterinarian assistants. We didn’t want to take unnecessary chances so we had brushed up on the basics.

We looked at #3. He’d already sensed that something was about to happen and had retreated to the hardest to reach corner of the kitchen from where he stared at us balefully. I got hold of the scruff of his neck and dragged him out. Grasping the head proved to be rather tricky because, rather than sitting there obligingly, #3 had turned into an eel. I suppose I am speaking metaphorically, but the metamorphosis was rapid and alarming: I had hold of what was clearly a cat’s head, but the body was worming backwards and thrashing around leaving him suspended by his surprisingly slender and elastic neck. Horrified, I let him go.

After a few minutes of adjustment, I managed to trap his body between my knees and levered his head backwards. It took rather more force than I was completely happy applying to a tiny slip of a cat. His mouth, however, did not open. Any attempts to prise it open were batted away by two front paws full of needle-sharp claws. I grabbed those too. Grudgingly the mouth opened, and my wife pushed the pill as far down his throat as she dared. In return Cat #3 bit her as hard as he dared. I grabbed hold of his head and jaw, pinching his mouth shut with both hands. To do this I had to let go of his paws.

For a small cat he has a lot of fight and his early life as a street cat has left him with none of the inhibitions that a normal house cat might have. All four sets of claws raked at my arms, hands, legs, and – because I was grasping him between my knees and my hands were otherwise occupied – my completely unprotected groin. He writhed around attempting to kick off my hands and his own head along with them. More alarmingly, he started to foam at the mouth. I let him go. He contemptuously spat what was left of the pill onto the floor and slunk off into the space beneath the old cast iron radiator where no one can get him. All we could see in the darkness were his pale green eyes and a mouth-shaped crescent of foam.

We surveyed the damage. So far, he had taken less than half a pill and both of us were bleeding freely from multiple lacerations. While we applied antiseptic to our cuts¹, we considered our options.

A towel was fetched, the theory – again supported by numerous YouTube videos – being that if we wrapped him up tightly so only the head protruded, then there wouldn’t be much he could do about it. This theory – as with so many theories – did not long survive experimental testing. Cat #3’s body is so slight that he can slip through almost any gap and even wrapped up tightly in a towel he still maintained his ability to pour out of any container like a liquid. At one point, we were convinced we still had hold of his swaddled body, but we were wrestling each other while he had slipped out of the door.

By the time we admitted defeat and, more importantly, run out of antiseptic, we had managed to get him to swallow the majority of two pills. All that was left was a large syringe loaded with kaolin and chicken flavoured goo. We looked at each other: it wasn’t going to happen.

In the morning, we called the vet. They found the whole thing rather amusing. Bring him in, they said between guffaws: we, the experts, will show you how it’s done.

The head vet has many years of experience and an unsentimental approach to animals and their owners. He listened patiently to our story, which was, I’m sure, one he had heard a thousand times before. He had a casually practiced but firm hold of #3 on the examination table. #3 for his part was staring into the distance and plotting the ruin of nations. The vet explained how all that was required was a little confidence and the right technique. He went on for quite a while. He asked us to tear the pill from its foil bubble and hand it to him. He sniffed the way someone might who is about to perform a nifty task for an adoring audience and gripped the cat’s head.

The movement was too fast to see, but fat beads of blood were soon welling up along three ragged tears in the vet’s hand. He uttered some choice phrases. We said nothing. Between the three of us and the help of one of the technicians, we carefully clipped his front claws and then, for good measure, the back ones too. The vet was more confident the second time. After a couple of minutes, he managed to trap the cat between his elbow, body and table, and prise the head back. At this point, Buttercup’s mouth would have been gaping open, but #3s mouth was firmly shut. The position of his head meant his teeth were exposed at the front. They were clenched together in miniscule but absolute defiance. I felt a surge of pride: he was a recalcitrant bastard, but he was our recalcitrant bastard. The vet tried to pry the mouth open, eventually managing to do so with our help and both hands. Again, the movement was too fast to see. The tablet pinged off the wall and rolled onto the floor. The vet yelled something and released the cat who immediately leapt from the table. I looked at my wife. Her lips were pressed together but I could see the laughter in her eyes and her shoulders were shaking.

Eventually, after a long period of much more careful experimentation, and with the aid of long-nosed device that could deposit the pill halfway down the cat’s throat from a safe distance, the vet managed to get the pills into #3’s mouth. We held onto him like the world’s smallest and angriest bucking bronco just long enough for the pills to go down. The vet picked up the cage and was about to scoop #3 up for his return journey when my wife asked if he would show us how to deliver the paste. The vet, to his credit, barely paused. The paste came in a large syringe that by rotation of a plastic cuff could administer precisely measured doses. The vet spent rather longer than he probably needed adjusting the quantity. We were anticipating – gleefully, I must admit – another wrestling match, but instead, he squeezed the paste out in small quantities and smeared it on the cat’s lips. It still took three of us to perform the operation, but at least no one got seriously injured. Safely back in his cage and licking a mixture of clay and chicken off his lips, we returned home.

After that day, it wasn’t so bad. It was as if #3 had proved his point and was now content to acquiesce in whatever nonsense we inflicted upon him. The day after, he ate his pills like candy and after a few days, was actually looking forwards to his syringe full of chickeny goo.

-fin-

1. The French have a wonderful substance called Synthol that one can splash liberally on wounds, muscular aches and so forth. Faith in its healing powers is strong. I like the smell and the way it stings. Both are reassuringly – and sometimes startlingly – medical. I can’t speak to its actual efficacy, but it feels like powerful stuff. ↩︎

#3 #3s