If I Were Hindu, Could I Think of Fleas as Pets?

Fleas are part of having pets — one of the worst of very many bad things about having pets (if you’re an adult, considering getting pets, please read my blog about “Parenting and Pets”. http://doreensings.blogspot.com/2015/06/parenting-and-pets.html You have been warned).

Fleas. In the old days (or, as Jennifer said when she was little, “the elden days”), they sold these smelly plastic collars you put on the cat or dog; you’d cut off the excess at the end, and Fluffy would walk around with a toxic-to-the-touch, smelly, flea-killing accessory.

And then there was flea dip. I have excruciating memories of setting up a bucket of warm water in the back yard, mixed with smelly pesticide. We'd literally dip the gazillion cats we had in and around my childhood home (at one time we had 17 cats, I think. Still not sure what was up with that), dunking one arm down in there with the cat to massage the mixture into the fur for several minutes (or until the cat managed to escape), while the other hand held onto the cat's scruff for dear life. The kitty would often arch its back and claw madly at the rim of the bucket, certain that we'd finally had enough of this “having pets” thing and were now trying to drown the little beast.  The dip would kill the fleas, for sure. And there was a certain amount of sport in seeing usually haughty cats humbled, soaking wet and scrawny. But the fleas always came back.

Then, in recent years, the invention of topical flea treatment sort of leveled up the war against fleas. Once a month, you squirt this oily, pungent, but much smaller amount of liquid between the shoulders of the cat or dog, and voila! The fleas apparently still jump onto the pet, and they still bite, but then they die before they get the chance to lay eggs and pass on their little flea genes to the next generation.

This worked for us. For a while. On a tip from my sister Diana, I learned to buy the flea treatment for a giant dog or cat, then do the math for the smaller actual weight of my pets, then empty the vial into a medicine dropper, and only dole out about a fourth or fifth of the total at a time. The price for the medicine is the same for a small dog or a giant one, so why not make it go further? Brilliant.

The drawbacks came when I’d accidentally squirt more than the required amount onto the beast, which I've done a time or two. I always worry I'm gonna kill a pet this way. But so far, no luck. And then, there's this greasy, smelly skid mark on the animal for a full day or longer. If you or a child accidentally touches it, you have to wash your hands. And all my pets have reveled in rolling on the carpet right after application, to rid themselves of the oily feeling. Lovely. And now, in the past year or so, this medicine has stopped working. I think maybe the fleas are evolving into these super-poison-resistant mutants, because I've heard lots of people say it no longer works for them either. Within days, my pets were crawling with fleas. Even the accidental double dose isn’t enough any more.

So what to do? For years, I've been hearing about a once-a-month pill that magically works. No smelly oil on the back of the pet. The drawback is that you actually need a veterinarian's prescription, and it costs a bundle. About 20 bucks a pill. While I could stretch the topical stuff, making a $40 box last for several months, now it's pretty much $20 per pet, per month. Sure, there are volume discounts. Which brings up a whole other gambling routine, as my cat is almost 21 years old. Will she even last six more months? Should I spend a little more by paying month-by-month, for a shorter amount of time? Or do I suck it up and buy six months, thereby "tempting the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing"? (Thank you, Toby Ziegler of the television show "The West Wing" for one of my favorite phrases EVER…)

Plus, as I mentioned, you need the prescription. I think I’ve said before that I try to spend as little as possible on my pets. A couple months ago, I finally took the last dog I’ll ever own in to a weekly clinic at Petco for his shots (which were WAY overdue) and to get the flea pill prescription. I was hoping that getting rid of his fleas would fix the cat’s problem. I spent a bundle on carpet powder to try to kill all the pests. Brian, my ever-patient man, bathed the cat with flea shampoo. But she still had tons of fleas within days. 

Plus, as she’s super old and sort of addled, Jasmine does this alarming thing when a flea bites her. She’ll be quietly sleeping on your lap, and then suddenly, she explodes upward and starts frantically licking a fresh bite (usually back by her butt), and pee literally JETS out of her, like a mini fire hose. So Jasmine looks like she’s having a seizure, pee is flying everywhere, and God forbid there is someone actually visiting who wasn’t prepared for this. My daughter’s friends were recently scarred for life while this happened during a screening of a Harry Potter movie. Jen calmly reached for the cat and said, "Yeah, sorry guys. She does this sometimes..."

So, I decided it was time to drag poor Jasmine in to get the flea pill. She hasn’t been to a vet in YEARS. As an indoor cat, she doesn’t go in every year for shots. I was worried that she’d be totally stressed out, but I realized I had no choice. Well, no cheap choice. I mean, I could pay for an in-home visit. But have you met me? Not gonna happen.

As I sat on the floor in line at the cheap clinic (where there’s no $60-just-to-walk-in-the-door fee — just the price of treatment, thanks), Jasmine huddled quietly in her cat carrier. A toothless woman with a thick Southern accent stood behind me, pushing a shopping cart that carried a trembling little chihuahua, who cringed warily on a dirty towel. This dear lady was super chatty, and repeatedly offered to let me pet her dog, “Sweetie Pie.” I politely declined, as the dog would snarl at anyone who passed by too closely. 

Jasmine, my elderly cat, handled the trip like a boss. She even came right out of the carrier and stood on the scale on the floor to get weighed, amid all sorts of chaos and noise and yapping dogs. I think being almost deaf helps a lot with her nerves. The “vet” running the clinic asked a few questions and marveled at her age. He told me that I really should take her in to our “regular vet” for a full blood workup and aging cat well-check. I uttered the magical phrase, “Um, she’s on palliative care.” This phrase probably works universally to get any nagging sales rep off one’s back.  I’ll have to try it. It basically means I’m keeping her comfortable til she dies, but I’m not doing anything to extend her life (think “kitty hospice”). The vet immediately nodded and said, “Ah… well, I’m required to offer that recommendation…” But I nodded and smiled politely, and he wrote the prescription.

So 45 minutes and almost $200 later, I walked out with six months of flea pills for both the cat and the last dog I’ll ever own.

If you’ve ever tried to pill a dog, you know that it’s pretty easy. You can tuck it into a piece of cheese or smear some bacon grease on it, toss it into the air, and you’re set. Bingley doesn’t even need that much encouragement. I don’t even need to hide it in the bathroom trash can or the litter box, although that would certainly work, too. Cats, though, are a different kettle of fish.  I have vivid memories of a childhood cat, Blackie, being sick and needing pills. Diana and I would hold her down, and I remember her foaming at the mouth, clawing madly, and usually spitting the pill out. I even remember desperately trying to use a pencil to jam the pill down her throat at some point. It was a horror movie.

There’s a hilarious step-by-step guide for pilling a cat that is eerily accurate. I think this is the link to it: 

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC372253/

There’s another equally hilarious YouTube video that shows a lady whose cat is clearly an opium addict, giving her cat a monthly pill for, I don’t remember, diabetes? Whatever. I was laughing til I cried at how mellow and pleasant the whole process was. Seriously, I’m not even sure this cat wasn’t a fake plush toy. Here’s the link for that: 

https://youtu.be/sZhFKHxnG4Q

My favorite quote: "Her conscious participation makes it so much easier!"

Or this one - it's awesome and sooooo realistic! 

https://youtu.be/h6rk-qh_l4o

So suffice it to say that I was prepared. I’ve found that the best way to proceed with a cat is to be completely confident and FAST. If you can get ‘er done before the cat knows what hit her, you’re set. 

So, the first time I gave Jasmine her flea pill, I recall it was a little dodgy - I might have had to give it two tries. But she’s super old, and I’m crafty and experienced. She won the first round, so I wrapped her in a towel and managed to get her to swallow the pill on the second try. And she did bite through my finger, even managing to get a fang up under my fingernail, like a bamboo shoot that torturers use. But other than that, I got it done without too much fuss. The FIRST time.

This, however, was the second time.

I opened the foil pack for the cat and set it on the kitchen rug, next to the towel and nail clippers. I figured I'd bundle Jasmine up and clip her claws, as I do every few weeks, and I’d sneak the pill in while I had her captive. She was busy drinking water, so in the meantime, I called in the last dog I'll ever own, to give him his pill. Bingley, of course, gulped his pill down without even chewing. No need to disguise it. He’ll eat anything. And he has. 

Then, on his way out of the kitchen, Bingley noticed the cat's $20 flea pill just lying there, so he snarfed that up too.

After cursing him to the moon and back, I opened a second $20 foil pack for the cat, wrapped her in a towel, clipped her claws, and then tried to give it to her. The frail, 6 pound, 20 year old cat gave me a six inch gash on my thigh and spit the pill out. I retrieved the soggy pill and managed to get it into her before it disintegrated, while she proceeded to pee all over me.

I showered myself off, sat down with my calm, sweet daughter to play some cards, then watched the cat try twice to barf up the second $20 flea pill. She didn’t actually bring anything up, so I decided to put the pets to bed and call it a night.

So, remember that the last dog I’ll ever own has now had one dog dose and one cat dose. The cat finally got her dose, but I wasn’t sure she’d keep it down.  The next day, I saw no barf in the laundry room (where Jasmine sleeps, confined — see other pet blog for those details). So far, so good. Bingley had thrown his up, but, as dogs do, he helpfully re-ate it all. So for $30, I was pretty sure we were set for the month.

Jasmine stayed in her little downstairs bed in the laundry room almost all day. No food. She only drank water every so often. I think her claw was probably sore from tearing through the flesh of my leg, poor thing. Late in the afternoon, I checked on her for about the tenth time, and she emerged, finally deciding she'd punished me enough for the previous night's trauma. Or so I thought.

I leave an entire can of food on a plate for her at night, and generally she finishes it. I'm an excellent housekeeper (just ask my family), but occasionally when I'm scouring the laundry room floor, I may miss a morsel or two of cat food. As a result, I had found several scout ants in there. I cleaned them up and sprayed ant poison all around. Although the new Raid formula smells just terrific, I didn't want to leave the cat enclosed in there all night with poison fumes. So I decided to give her the run of the house that night. Perhaps I needed a reminder of why, so long ago, I decided to confine her each night.

As it was blistering hot, I left our bedroom door open. Knowing Jasmine would want to come snuggle in the middle of the night, as cats do, I put a baby gate up in our doorway. Being old and stiff, Jasmine can't make it onto my bed anymore without help, and with Brian being a Ninja-light sleeper, I wanted to avoid a middle-of-the-night rescue, where I'd have to untangle her claws from halfway up to our bed.

You know that sound cats make when they have a toy or a dead mouse in their mouth? Not a cheerful, high-pitched "meow", but a deep-throated, loud, guttural "MROOUUURRRR"? That was Jasmine. Over and over. Several times. All night. Plus, she is almost totally deaf, so she forgets how to make normal cat sounds. So HER weird, super loud "Hey humans, where are you? I require your company" yowling is especially pleasant.  Amazingly, Brian never even heard it.

I’m counting the days til I have to do this again for my pets. Every month. For the rest of their lives.