Suicidal Feline

The vet hands me pill bottle after pill bottle while I hold a frail black and white kitten I’ve just adopted from the shelter. The shelter doctor rattles off the instructions for each bottle. No dose has the same timing as the other. One must be administered with food. One must be taken on an empty stomach. One causes increased thirst. Another causes decreased appetite. None allow the cat to operate heavy machinery.

The staccato delivery of the medicine schedule makes me rethink this whole adoption, especially given that I’m not a cat person. I grew up with at least one dog in the family for my entire life. Now that I’m stationed overseas, away from my family and our pets (who we consider family), I get the cat in an attempt fill the void of a pet without the time and attention demands of a dog. 

But with each “and this one should be given” commandment, I am more and more convinced that this furball is going to be more work than any dog I ever had.

I’m overwhelmed by the weight of the responsibility I’ve just commited to. That might be why the kitten that “spoke to me” (very meowdly I might add), was the sickest of the litter, the one least expected to survive and the one whose pills were being given to me for free.

I’m trusting the doc is going to transcribe her monotone message into written communique because my overwhelm is decreasing my ability to hear.

While the coping mechanism for all that ails my kitten is in pill form, the coping mechanism for all that overwhelms me is in laughter form.

I’m scanning the doctor’s diagnosis and cure for an opportunity to prescribe some of my own pharmacology to the situation.

In the midst of her monotonous drivel about ailments all ending with “-itis” and symptoms I need to watch for, she lobs a softball at me with her parting instructions.

“…so just keep an eye on the cat and bring her back in if she seems depressed.”

With stand-up comic deadpan delivery, I say, “If I find her on the ledge getting ready to jump, I’ll be sure to rush her to a vet.”

I leave space for laughter because, come on, that shit’s funny.

The doc invades the silence reserved for the natural response to a hilarious joke, perfectly executed.

“Felines don’t tend to act suicidal. By ‘depressed’ I mean listless and lethargic.”

Her delivery is even more deadpan than mine but I suspect it’s the result of having a flatlined sense of humor, and not a performative choice.

Either way, I scoop up my frail little cat and all her drugs, leaving what I consider my best sick-animal-based material in the vet’s exam room and head home to nurse my ailing pet and my damaged pride.

As I walk out of the vet's office, I realize that in laughter lies the strength to overcome even the most daunting of responsibilities. It's a revelation highlighted by the humorless demeanor of the vet.

Despite her stoicism, I find solace in the absurdity of the situation and the power of levity to carry me through. With a grin and a wink at the irony, I head home ready to tackle whatever comes our way, knowing that with a little humor, even the toughest days can be turned into memorable adventures.