When our cat decided to soak a basket full of family photos with urine, I was certain she wasn't sending me a casual message, but instead, an urgent request. One that spoke loud and clear of her desire to be eliminated from the planet. Turns out, she may have been trying to simply let me know - she has a urinary tract infection.
It is apparent the cat and I need to work on our communication skills.
I realize even in the best of times, when the cat and I are succeeding at reading each other’s messages, it is done with a rather large margin for error. But I was pretty certain she knew by attempting to destroy something so sacred she would be committing suicide. And when I dropped to my knees and plunged my hands into the pile of sticky, smelly, damp photos, my children looked first at me, then quickly at the cat. Knowing full well that there was a good chance the cat would be snuffed out by the end of the day.
But maybe her actions weren't the signpost of a disgruntled feline. We will soon find out. After being advised by the veterinary assistant of this peculiar communication method, she dropped three needle-less syringes into my hand, and said the best way to find out - was to collect a sample. Immediately my mind grappled with the method of collection. The process that formed first in my mind sounded not only impossible, but also like one that would most certainly result in my own hospital visit shortly thereafter. Surely this was a joke. How does one time it just right, and manage to hold the cat still long enough to collect the urine while its streaming from their body. My look of shock must have been what prompted the assistant to offer the following instructions: empty the litter box completely, plug the bathroom drains, close the toilet lid, remove all rugs and or other pieces of fabric, make sure the cat has a full bladder (and how in God’s name does one do that?), and lock her in the bathroom until she urinates. “Oh. Uh. And how long will that be… approximately?” I asked. Until she goes, I was told. "Okay. Right. But how long will that be?" I asked again. Within twenty-four hours, she said. Listening to the constant howls of an imprisoned cat for the next twenty four hours sounds like torture – not just for the cat, but also for those who are trying to occupy the house with her. And then there is the issue of what bathroom do I use for this forced, yet necessary incarceration? All of the bathrooms in this house are used, and used often. One door inadvertently cracked open for entry, and the cat will be gone in a blur. And heaven knows, it'll be near impossible to shove her back in the bathroom, once we do manage to dislodge her from her hard-to-reach hiding place.
As I’ve alluded to before, our cat isn’t the thin, demure kind. Our cat has wrestling arms that rival most WWE wrestlers. And I know she will be using those arms to jiggle the bathroom door clean off its hinges while imprisoned.
And I have to believe, on the slim chance that the cat did perform this act of treason due to her unhappiness here, being locked in a dark bathroom for an entire day won’t help any. Which brings about another question - do I have to keep it dark, or do I leave the light on? I really can’t imagine how the presence of darkness (or light, for that matter), will alter her rate of elimination.
Like a new parent trying the make them cry it out, until they fall asleep method for the first time, I’m dreading the idea of this procedure.
The only other option provided in determining if she does indeed have an infection is to take her to the vet’s office, wherein they put her under anesthesia, thereby allowing them to collect the necessary sample. I don’t like that idea either. Sitting here, staring down at her perfectly white and black fluffy body I have to wonder what is going on in her mind. As cats often seem to sense things that haven’t yet been acted upon, I am left to wonder if she senses the impending doom that awaits her. God knows the thought hasn’t escaped my mind since it first entered it.
Sane
