Saturday, April 19, 2014

A hunter, a killer, an angry furball

Gilbert the Cat is not a happy feline.
But his discomfort was caused by his own paw.
You see, Gilbert is a hunter, a killer, a wild beast that tracks, slays and eats mice and birds.
He does not have to because we do feed him delicious and nutritious cat food whenever he wants it, but that predatory heritage is hard to shake and he still prefers to grab a meal on the go whenever he can.
I watched him catch a mouse one day and realized cats are more heartless than a gas company executive.
He did not just catch the mouse – he tormented it. He would hold it down with his paws for a while and sit there and look around while the mouse said the rodent equivalent of a Hail Mary or two, or three, or a million.
He would then let the mouse go and the little guy would take off like his life depended on it, which it did, only to have the cat grab him again.
A couple times, Gil would throw the rodent in the air and try to catch it before it hits the ground.
He was having a grand old time. Gilbert that is, not the mouse who obviously went between moments of hope of escape to the dread of being captured time and again.
Then with a final crunch of his jaws, the mouse was done for. Gil chewed his head for a little while before grabbing Mickey's cousin between his front paws and essentially pulling the insides out. I did not know cats did that, but it seemed a very efficient way to prepare a meal.
The icky bits were left in a pile on the front lawn, while Gilbert strutted away feeling proud of his kill.
More than once I would head out in the morning and find a pile of feathers or mouse remnants in the yard, another victim of the killer cat.
They will never know it, but those birds, mice and whatever else the cat managed to catch, kill and ingest administered a measure of revenge in their deaths.
They gave Gilbert worms. Big, white disgusting worms. We did not know he had worms until he barfed one up the other day.
Yup, it was pretty disgusting. As if cat puke is not gross enough, to see a white wiggler writhing around in puddle of kitty barf takes it to a whole new level.
So we called the vet and bought some potion we have to squirt down his throat twice a day, much to his immense displeasure.
I don't imagine the stuff tastes very good and I am not about to try it to find out, but it is his own fault. If Gil wasn't so enthusiastic about hunting and killing things, he would not have to endure the eye dropper full of this brownish liquid.
I hold him wrapped in blanket while the Missus – who is a nurse and can transfer those skills to the animal realm – squirts the stuff down his gullet. He  makes a very unhappy sound while thrashing his head around and trying to spit out the offending liquid.
He then gives us an evil glare like it's all our fault he has worms. I am sure he is plotting some form of revenge and I always look in my shoes before putting them on.
The vet said he needs the 'treatment' for a full week, so twice a day I wrap him up, hold his head still and the Missus squirts the medicine into his mouth.
The vet said when the worms die they will come out in his poop.
“You should check his bowel movements for the next week or so and keep an eye out for them.”
I will simply trust the medication did its job and the cat is worm free because as fun as looking at a pile of cat poop sounds, I have other things to do – like anything.

copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh  

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