Academia: I've told y'all before that Cary and I have two cats, George and Atticus. We love them dearly. George is 13 and spends most of his time looking dignified; Atticus is three and spends most of his time finding ways to slowly drive us insane.
While George has been completely indifferent to my pregnancy (as he is to most things), Atticus sensed something was different before I ever took a pregnancy test. His behavior has been a little more off than normal for the past four months. He started sleeping next to me right away, which was sweet, but he also started peeing all over our house. Not so sweet. Having our couch smell like a litter box is less than cute.
So Tuesday I took Atticus to the vet to see what his deal was. I was expecting a diagnosis like, "Your cat is a big jerk who is trying to shred your nerves one accident at a time." I mean, that's how this whole refusing-to-use-the-litter-box thing looked to me. The vet took it a bit less personally than me, fortunately, and said that my changing hormones, pheromones, and whatever other -mones are causing Atticus extreme stress. Peeing on our stuff is how he lets us know how stressed he is. The vet prescribed feline Prozac. And then I felt like a big jerk for getting mad.
So off I went to Target, where I had to fill out paperwork with Atticus's first and last name, date of birth, allergies, and medical history in order to fill his prescription. I felt a little silly ("Are you sure you need the cat's first and last name?" I kept asking), but they insisted it was necessary, and I don't want my house to smell like pee.
The vet said it can take up to four weeks for this to completely work, so we'll see. In the meantime, I'm congratulating myself on successfully tricking Atticus into taking his first dose of Prozac, and heavily investing in stain and odor removal products.
Sartorial: This is what I wore for all of that. My house may smell like Eau de Crazy Cat Lady, but at least my clothes are cute.
No comments:
Post a Comment