ANDRE BEGIN

Over the fall and winter, our cat, Ivy, was sick and needed medication. What was different this time was that because of her delicate tummy, she was on a strict diet. That being the case, her favourite pudding treats that were the no-fail way to hide medication were no longer on the menu.
Our only three options were:

– Hide the medication in her wet food
– Hide the medication in her dry food, or
– Give her the medication orally through a syringe.

When it came to the first two options, if a medication had the faintest scent, Ivy would approach her food bowl, take a whiff and walk away, never to return until the bowl of food had been emptied and the bowl washed thoroughly.

Knowing that this was the way Ivy operated, I asked the vet’s team for a demonstration of how to give Ivy her meds orally. The technician showed me how to hold Ivy so that she felt supported, but couldn’t really wiggle her way out of the transaction. At first, it seemed easy enough.

When the time came for Ivy’s next dose, I drew the necessary quantity of medicine into the syringe and then went over to see Ivy. When I assumed the position, Ivy knew that something was up, as this was not a normal part of our routine. Despite my best effort, Ivy started backing out of the gentle hold I had and escaped. Maybe this wasn’t so easy after all.

When Ivy had regained her calm disposition, I approached her once again with the syringe behind my back. This time, I was successful in getting her to hold still. What I hadn’t anticipated was that no sooner than I had delivered the medication, she shook her head around, splashing me, the wall, the blanket and every other horizontal and vertical surface within a four-foot radius.

Fortunately, in the days that followed, with practice, I got better at it, finding alternate positions to keep her gently in place, and ensuring that her head was tilted upward for the medication to slide down her throat. Ivy must have figured out that whether she liked it or not, medication was going to happen, so she didn’t resist quite as much. However, she did catch on to the scheduled times I was giving her the medication and started disappearing around that time.

In my next chess move, I started alternating the times of her medication so that she couldn’t anticipate and plan her disappearing act. For a while, the routine went like this: day 1: breakfast time, day 2: lunch time, day 3: dinner time, day 4: bedtime.

At first, we had a steady streak of success. But when Ivy started her disappearing act again, I had to break one of my own cardinal rules, which was to avoid giving her medication in a location that she considered a quiet and safe space. However, it was either that or skip doses and jeopardize her progress.

At one point, I swear I could see in her eyes the “Oh no, not again” look whenever I approached her. However, as they say, practice makes perfect. During that time, I had found a position that felt more like a gentle caress that was perfect for giving her the medication, while she seemed to be getting used to this daily ritual as part of our routine.

Shortly thereafter, she needed to switch to a different medication, one that is known to be a little bitter.

The first time I gave Ivy a dose of this new medication, as it was flowing into her mouth, a look of horror came over her face. As I finished, Ivy took off at top speed from the kitchen to the living room, up the stairs and jumped on the bedroom furniture like it was a trampoline. It was like an extreme case of the zoomies.

After a few days of Ivy running in the opposite direction when I approached her with this one, I had a chat with the vet to see if there was any opportunity to reintegrate the pudding treats into her diet just for this medication. Thankfully, we struck up a deal that I could try one flavour. We chose salmon, her absolute favourite, which became our go-to for medication, without any complaints or fuss. For some reason, she doesn’t seem to pick up on the bitterness of the medication through the treat. Thank Heavens!

The great irony in all this is that in my effort to try to keep her healthy and safe, I become the enemy as “Mean Daddy” with the bad-tasting liquid in the little plastic tube. As much as I pride myself on the sense of trust we share, I could feel it eroding slowly every time I needed to go into what amounted to “ambush mode” to give her medication. But as a pet parent, I did the best I could with gentleness, patience and lots of love.

Fortunately, Ivy recovered from her illness and is now on just one medication for maintenance. With her pudding treat, she doesn’t complain; in fact, she looks forward to it first thing in the morning. With restored health, trust and energy, we are both happy to have put that chapter behind us and look forward to a stretch of continued good health and good times, without us having to strategize against each other. And should it ever happen again, I’ve got a whole new skill set and months of experience to fall back on to make this a more pleasant experience for both of us.

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Sincere thanks for reading!
Have a great day,
André