Our Cat Is Crazy(er)

Our Cat, Trixie, is crazy. Or should I say, that as cats go, she is crazier than most. In this case the diagnosis of feline mental illness has been clinically proven. Trixie is on kitty Prozac. I am not making this up.

Apparently Trixie suffers from acute anxiety. I am not sure whether her mental state was generated from waiting an extra ten minutes for her breakfast that one time my alarm didn't go off or from the two hours she spent in solitary last year when I accidentally locked her in the closet. Whatever, the cause, her condition began to manifest itself when she decided to take her "morning constitutional" on our brand new living room rugs. After a few weeks of cleaning up her "morning sunshine" we visited the vet.

Our first vet suggested a number of techniques to alter her behavior. They included extra litter boxes, her own bathroom and bringing back the old rugs which she apparently preferred given that they stayed poop free for almost six years. When these techniques failed we sought a second opinion. Our new vet did a thorough exam, drew blood, and ran some tests. One hundred dollars later she informed us that there were no physical ailments. Trixie, she said, was stressed.

Stressed. I am not making this up.

All I need to know is what could possibly cause stress to an indoor house cat? Last time I checked, Trixie did not have a job - unless you count trying to trip me while I am lumbering down the stairs half asleep every morning. She's very good at that. I'm also relatively sure that she is debt free. Even if she did have student loans, I suspect they have been paid off long ago. And we rarely ask her to contribute to the house hold chores. She is not required to go grocery shopping, do laundry, or shine the kitchen sink. She doesn't even have to clean the litter box - we do that for her.

Trixie's most pressing responsibility involves capturing any flies that breach the perimeter and infiltrate our household. She takes on this task with the efficiency of a special ops agent on a top secret assignment. After stealthily stalking her prey, she leaps and kills. She has no remorse. And what happens next, we try not to think about. We only ask that she dispose of the body completely and not regurgitate it on our bed later that night.

When we couldn't figure the source of Trixie's stress, Ken spoke to the vet about it. The conversation went something like this:

Vet: Have you noted anything unusual about her behavior.
Ken: Yes, she's crapping on the new rugs.
Vet: Well, other than that, has she been acting unusual.
Ken: She's a cat. Can you define "unusual?"
Vet: Well, has she been sleeping more than normal?
Ken: Can you define "normal?"
Vet: Let me get you some Prozac.
Ken: Is that for me or the cat?

For anyone who has ever had the terrifying experience of pilling a cat, you know what's coming next. And it ain't pretty. While we did our best to prepare for the confrontation ahead, we never anticipated the fierceness by which our enemy would resist. Before embarking on the potentially life threatening mission, Ken and I sat in the war room and discussed tactics and strategy. Due to a dearth of body armour in our house, our only protection would be an extra thick comforter wrapped tightly around Trixie. My job would be to entangle her daggers (a.k.a. claws) tightly and pry open her mouth to expose her knife like teeth. Ken would make the attack and try to shove the pill down her throat while keeping all ten digits on his hands intact. A first aid kit and the phone would be positioned nearby (with 9-1 pre-pressed), just in case.

Soon, the battle was on and the fight was fierce. Ken took the offense but Trixie was sharp. Each time he placed the little white pill in her mouth, she would shoot it back at him. Finally, after about of half hour of "spit out the pill", interspersed with a few rounds of scratch Mom and bite Dad, we were all feeling a bit battle weary, as well as battle scarred. "There has to be an easier way!", I moaned. That's when Ken told me about the "pill stick."

Him: It's like a blow dart. It just shoots the pill right down their throat.
Me: And you didn't get one?
Him: No.
Me: Why not?
Him: It cost four dollars.
Me: You mean we spent one hundred dollars on vet visits, twenty dollars on blood work and thirty dollars on kitty Prozac and you drew the line at a four dollar cat pill dart?
Him: Next time, you take the cat to the vet.

Luckily, the pills are working. Trixie's potty issues appear resolved. (Knock on wood that contains deep gashes from cat claws). Still, I question whether she is experiencing more or less stress from the treatment. I'm keeping my fingers crossed because according to the vet, our next step is a cat psychiatrist. (Again, not making this up). For some reason I am having a hard time picturing Trixie laying on a leather couch unburdening her emotional baggage while a white haired man with spectacles says "and how did that make you feel?" But I suspect if she does, the subject of pills will take up most of the hour.

Last night as we were giving Trixie her pill (with the pill dart this time) I noted to Ken that she was a bit more odoriferous than normal. "Are you planning on giving her a bath?", he asked. "I don't think we can afford the therapy bills.", I replied. Ken didn't miss a beat, "Is that for you or the cat."