Hating vicariously

Sammy, our big male cat, may or may not have a urinary tract infection and against everything I believe in when it comes to taking medication, we are giving him an antibiotic each morning before we leave the house. It's this orange stuff that smells like melted sherbet. As often as I have considered it, I have never actually tried it, not even one lick of the eye dropper.

Sammy, a pensive and worried soul, easily frightened by the buzzer on the dryer, doesn't seem to mind as I sit on top of him while Cynical pries open his mouth, squirts it in and holds his fangs together until he swallows. He just moves on along, stopping for a bite to eat on his way to take a nap, as if he was never violated, in complete denial that anything has happened out of the ordinary.

Izzie, however, who has never in her life been given an oral medication, sits in the corner baring her teeth, hissing and threatening to eat any hand that comes near her. I think she's trying to let it be known that even though we long ago had any sense of pride removed from Sammy, she still thinks someone should be upset over the situation. And that someone is her.