Our cat has anxiety issues.
I learned this after forking out $300.00 at the vet on our fat, lazy, sleeps-16-hours-a-day-and-naps-the-other-eight couch-potato ball of shedding fur who’s been “thinking outside the box” on and off for the last year.
How in the help-me-understand-this can a housecat, for whom the pinnacle of excitement occurs on the semi-annual occasion that a mouse unwisely meanders into our digs, have anxiety?
She is deeply beloved, petted, and coddled. By the children.
The hubs and I, however, are trying to strategize an end to her life which is not traceable back to us.
Do hit men take contracts on cats? ‘Cause I’m about there. A raccoon showed up on our deck a couple of days ago, and I swear if the kids had already been in bed I’d have tossed the cat outside and may the best predator win.
I grew up on a farm. Animals, in my opinion, belong in a barn. I make an exception for cats, because they are clean creatures who learn how to use the litter box as kittens, after the human simply scratches Kitty’s paw into the sand a couple of times.
Once the carpet becomes the cat’s preferred toileting patch, however, my loyalty and generosity come to an abrupt end.
But, as I said, the children love the stupid cat. Their dad and I put her outside for twenty-four hours, and you’d have thought we skinned her, made feline falafels, and turned her hide into Domestic Shorthair earmuffs.
Oh, if I could get away with that behind the children’s backs…
But in an effort to keep our kids from becoming runaway statistics, I dropped a wad at the veterinarian’s office, who prescribed Prozac for our perpetually peeing and pooping puss.
Prozac. My cat is on an antidepressant.
I feel ridiculous. Stupid. Laughable. Like someone who buys an entire designer wardrobe for the little Shitzi-Malti-Poodle-Dee-Poo she carries around in her Birkin Bag.
I seriously considered putting diapers on the cat. I still may.
The upside of this, I suppose, is that her medication comes from a pharmacy that supplies people, and the prescription contains the very same chemical compounds given to humans, albeit in smaller doses.
Back when I suffered post-partum depression they put me on 100 mg of Zoloft for a year. We called them Mommy’s Happy Pills.
So I guess if the Prozac doesn’t mellow the cat back into her litter box, I can pop a few handfuls of her dope and I just won’t care anymore.
“Mom! Are you peeing in the corner?”
Leave me alone. I have anxiety issues.