Saint Jésus, save us from the torment that is administering Louis Catorze’s Gabapentin. There is no punishment in hell worse than this.
It’s rather like throwing a live grenade into the mouth of an active volcano: you want to get it out of your hands quickly, but you don’t want to mess up your one shot, either, nor risk the angry volcano spewing the grenade back out and into your face.
Cat Daddy thinks the horror of this task is such because I am not calm enough, and that Catorze detects my stress and acts up. I suggested that he do it himself if I’m such a hindrance. He said no.
It’s a 2-man job, partly because 4 hands are needed but also for that “If I’m going down, so are you” sense of camaraderie. If you’re going to be slashed to smithereens it’s only fair that your partner is also slashed to smithereens, n’est-ce pas?
When we both go back to work, it’s going to be even worse: Cat Daddy usually gets up for work some time after me, but he will be forced to get up with me at 6am so that we can do the pilling together. If we leave it for when we get home, there won’t be enough time between the 2 doses. The only thing more horrific than this is the insult of having to get up early to do it.
“I’m sure that, on some level, he knows we’re trying to help him,” Cat Daddy wheezed as, together, we battled to restrain a kicking, yowling, hissing Catorze. And we watched in disbelief as he spat out a pill which then rolled through a crack between the floorboards and vanished forever.
Whether he knows or not, frankly I would rather take on the remaining 11 labours of Hercules.
(This surely counts as the first one?)