Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched in the 1975 film. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In the film “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” Nurse Ratched arranges neat little paper cups of psychoactive drugs on a tray. The multicolored meds look like candy at a kid’s party. She won’t rest until every one of her patients is drugged to the gills. Sappy elevator music plays over loudspeakers to herald the arrival of oblivion. But Nurse Ratched never attempted to medicate a cat!
The scene here at my home is not unlike that loony bin, although I play George Winston-style piano solos on my Pandora. For perkier fare, I select the Keith Jarrett station if everyone is calm enough to handle Mr. Jarrett’s fortissimo accompanied by heaving moans. No mind numbing treacle for my cats or me!
Every morning at 8 AM, it’s time for Saffron’s medication. The medication, called Methimazole, is so potent that there’s a warning “Use Gloves When Handling” in big letters on the label. I don a pair of blue and yellow rubber gloves and crank up the calming music.
The moment I open the office door, Saffron crawls to the farthest corner beneath the desk.
But like Nurse Ratched, I’ve developed stratagems. I take in the supplies and set them on a little bench, almost as if they were an afterthought. Then I sit down on the floor and call gaily, “How about some pets?”
Or, “C’mon, Saffie, come and get some love.” Most of the time, he goes for it.
Saffron hobbles out from under the desk and comes to be petted, rubbing his head against my arm, purring loudly. His coat is glossy and soft now, not rough and filthy as when he first came back. I purchased a purple grooming glove and once he’s had his head scratches, I put on the glove and give his coat a thorough brushing.
He’s so blissed out by the petting that I can often administer the medication before he hobbles back under my desk. Lately, though, he’s gotten wise to my tricks and once the purple petting glove comes off and I begin to transition to the blue rubber gloves, he hightails it back into hiding.
Nurse Ratched stratagems exhausted, I crawl on hands and knees under the desk, pleading with him to take pity on me.
“C’mon buddy, time for your meds,” I say, even though I know that attempting to reason with a cat is fruitless or possibly insane.
He backs into the farthest corner, forcing me to crawl in after him, tilt his head back, and administer the Methimazole. The stuff costs $50 bucks a bottle! And he has to take it for the rest of his life.
But when I see how much better he looks, and pet his soft coat, and listen to the rumble of his purr, I think it’s a small investment for kitty love and well-being.
I would love to see a photo of Saffie now that he’s doing so well. 🙂 I know — you are having enough trouble getting his meds down him but maybe someone else could grab a snap when he’s being groomed by you.