Back in December we had our cat fixed. The vet called us after the operation and said she had a really bad case of worms.
And then she told me kids can get it too.
Umm..are you kidding me?
And then she told me we had to treat all our animals (2 dogs and 2 cats) and also watch our kids for signs of infection. As in..if our baby gets an itchy bum and there are worms in his poop see a doctor.
Seriously. Are you kidding me?
Damn it Fern why do you have to catch all those mice? This is way more work than telling Brett to check the traps and checking my basement for poop.
So anyway, we dewormed them all and I vowed to make sure to never listen to my cheepo husband again when he says we don’t need to do it every three months and the vet is just looking for money.
He’s a liar. A big stupid liar.
Now its been three months so today I spent the afternoon wrapping pills up in cheese slices, again barf. Who actually eats these things?
Then I hunted down two dogs and 1 cat and watched them eat their cheese wrapped pill that would magically make me never again have to worry about worms coming out of my baby’s butt.
Ok really. Actual throw up in my neck.
And then I had to find the asshole cat. The one who doesn’t care if we live or die as long as she can snack on our skin to keep her fat body in tip top shape. The one who will not let us pet her unless she decides it’s ok.
I love cats. Pretty bitches who just don’t care.
I sidle up to her, all smooth talking and slow. I get ahold of her. I offer my cheese/orange plastic wrapped snack and she won’t take the damn thing.
What? You want me to eat out of your hand? So beneath me. Piss off giant human.
So I put the sticky cheesy crap on the ground and slowly pet her, trying to get her to eat the damn thing so she does not infect my babies with her disgusting mice catching diseases.
Then…Rachel comes stomping over. I CAN HELP! She “helpfully” hollers.
No Rachel. That’s not helping.
Shut up Rachel you’re spooking the cat.
Go away Rachel, she isn’t eating the damn cheese and my back is cramping from hunching over her crooning that it’s ok to eat the damn cheese.
So I pick up the cat, head to the garage and then have to try to shove the pill down her throat. In the middle of this exercise Rachel yells out “YOU’RE HURTING HER! STOP!” and then the damn cat ran away.
And no. I did not throw a broom in the general direction of my kid in frustration.
And yes. I’m still looking for the damn cat.
After sneaking around our property last night for at least 1/2 an hour and not finding the damn cat we decided to hide the pill in Brett’s tin of fish snacks (seriously, why do I surround myself with such grossness??) and put it under a tree for to her to eat. She ate around the pill. I caught her this morning, hid in the bathroom with her and shoved the now wet, fishy smelling pill down her throat.
And then I spent 10 minutes dry-heaving and made everybody late.
Cat 1. Andrea 0.
And I deleted my f-bombs because I kept picturing my mother reading them and shaking her head.
Yup, I’m almost 35 and my mom managed to make me feel guilty without even talking to me. Or looking at me. Or even knowing she did it.
Well played Mother.