When I apply the flea medicine to the back of my cat’s neck, parting his hair to make sure it reaches his skin, I feel an uncomfortable flurry of emotions. I feel slightly embarrassed that the cat has fleas in the first place, even though he’s an indoor cat and the presence of fleas in the house is due to the porous condition of the structure. I feel like a jerk for applying pesticide to a mammal; a pesticide that will spread itself over the surface of his body through the oils in his skin. I think of Round-Up, I think, inappropriately, of genocidal defoliants. The longevity of this product frightens me. I would hardly let someone give me a monthly dose of pesticide, not to mention one that hangs around for a month at a time. And I don’t even lick myself on a regular basis.
In performing a procedure that requires the parting of the cat’s fur, I feel like I’ve been placed in a role I neither want nor feel qualified to occupy. This is not the kind of relationship I want to have with the cat. He is of another species with its own rules for maintaining his body. Because he lives with me, I deal with the input and output, the scratching, petting, and admonishing, the cooing and the baby talk. I am somewhat like his much older brother. I’m not his doctor or his nurse. Yes, there is the veterinarian, but I don’t enjoy thinking about veterinarians. Veterinarians are almost an accoutrement of a class I don’t belong to, like chiropractors or hot tub salesmen.
Veterinarians also make me think of pet sickness and pet death, which is almost like real death, except that it cannot be overcome by the pet’s own efforts.
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