Aug 3, 2011 5 min read

I have the wounds to prove it.

When my elderly mother moved in with us, she brought along her cat, Sammy.

We had two cats and a dog of our own. As happens, however, they have all passed away.

Our cats were typical. Sammy’s a different sort of feline. Not very affectionate, a little skittish and a pussy cat that doesn’t want to be held or cuddled. He’s very vocal and likes to be the center of attention, at least until someone he doesn’t know comes into our home. Then he hides.

It didn’t seem to take him long to adjust to his new surroundings. Within about a week of arriving in our home, he had felt confident enough to sprawl out on the coffee table and pester us for treats and brushing.

But a few weeks ago, he underwent a significant personality change, even for him. He became reclusive, hiding under a cabinet in our family room (which is downstairs) rather than roaming about the house. His appetite seemed suppressed and we had to place food and water near him because he wouldn’t come upstairs to eat.

When we tried to pick him up to see if there were visible signs that could reveal any ailment, he would squirm out of our grasp and duck under some other piece of furniture.

He seemed traumatized. The only thing we could figure was the annual fireworks display near our home had badly shaken him.

Worried, we made arrangements for a visit to the veterinarian.

That raised another important question: How were we going to get him to the animal doctor?

He had already discovered multiple hiding places in our home, some fairly obvious and others so secluded we could have been standing in front of them and not known he was there.

My lovely wife called the vet and made an appointment. When the time came, we couldn’t find the cat, let alone get him into the carrier.

Eventually, the veterinary office made the appointment, not for a particular time or day, but for “when they can catch the cat and bring him in.”

Meanwhile, Sammy seemed to be recovering from his stupor. He was back upstairs, roaming about, his appetite had returned and things seemed to be getting back to normal. We felt a visit to the doctor was still in order, and made an extra effort to catch him and get him into the cat carrier. We accomplished that with little trouble. Once inside the carrier, Sammy squalled, fidgeted and cried. Since I had to work, my wife took him to the vet. We both expected him to go berserk.

“He was good as gold,” my wife told me later. “He didn’t misbehave even when the vet took some blood to test.”

In the end, he came home none the worse for wear with a good physical report and two different medicines he was to take, to be sure he didn’t have a hidden infection.

Now came the fun part. Ever try to give a pill to a cat? It was like a Three Stooges routine. I’d grab Sammy, my wife would wrap a towel around him, I would open his mouth and pop in the pill, only to have Sammy spit it right back out. About the third time we attempted to give him the pill, he managed to get a couple of lethal paws out of the towel, digging his claws into my hand, drawing blood (not his — mine). I yelped louder than he did, begging my wife to let him go.

Looking for a simpler and less painful solution, we put his pill in his food, hoping he wouldn’t notice it and eat it. He began cleaning off his plate, pill and all.

Why didn’t we try that initially? Well, the vet had given Sammy a pill. But she used a device that basically popped it down his throat.

We tried it the old-fashioned way, never getting the medicine beyond the middle of his tongue. Live and learn, I guess.

Things are pretty much back to normal. Sammy has staked out a spot behind the corner of the couch when he’s not mingling with his human family, yammering for treats, food, brushing or play. But he’s still cautious around us, probably remembering the pill-taking experience.

One thing I learned from all this is that Sammy’s claws are way too sharp and long and need trimming. If I can grab him again, I’ll take him to a groomer. It would be well worth the price.

I’ll just make sure I’m wearing gloves: not in case Sammy tries to scratch me but to hide my scars so I won’t scare the groomer.

Have a good day.

James Pletcher Jr. is HeraldStandard.com business editor. He can be reached at 724-439-7571 or by email at jpletcher@heraldstandard.com.