Imagine a toddler strapped into a high chair.
A wiggling wriggling toddler, that doesn’t really want to be there.
You exasperatingly spoon food into his mouth only to have him spit it out.
Food plonks onto the tray table and dribbles down his bib.
You patiently wipe it all up and try again.
Now replace that image of the toddler with a cat.
A 15 pound cat
A wiggling wily cat
A cat that most certainly does not want to be there
But instead of having a high chair, with the blessed strap to hold him down and anchor him in place, you have your arms.
And a syringe of antibiotics that you are to administer by mouth
This said cat has previously been acquainted with said antibiotics from last summer.
His memory is sharp.
He did not like this rodeo last time around.
He stares daggers at you.
He does acrobatics fit to qualify him to be a member of Cirque du Soleil, all in the name of evading you.
At last you have him pinioned, rapidly squirt antibiotics into his mouth and breath a sigh of relief that it is done.
That relief is short lived.
Cat has payback.
Cat chomps his jaws open and shut, open and shut.
Spit drools down.
You dash to get a paper towel.
Meanwhile cat bolts.
Spittle flies from mouth, landing on sofa, pillows, chairs
He dashes through the living room fleet of foot
Leaving a trail of slime on carpet
By this time he has worked up a lather of regurgitated liquid
Masking his mouth and frothing down his chest
You make a dive
He evades you
You yell “Hey froth face!”
You tackle him paper towel in hand.
Wiping his maw, goo be gone.
Next up, armored with a fist full of paper towels, you wipe down his flight path.
Inwardly sighing that this is your life for the next six days, twice a day.
Froth face follies.