And so it fell that a plague of shoggoths wast released upon the Promised House, and the Faithful were sore beset by the sneezings and the wheezings and the coughings-up of the treacherous snotbeastes. And in their duress did the Faithful snork and whistle their every breath, pointedly within the hearing of The Mom, as though to say "Lo; I cannot breathe."
And being a kindly Mom, did she Seize upon the eldest, and most fragile of the Faithful -- yea, even upon Sister Hilfy herself -- and did thrust her into the Box of Do Not Want, and thence, by many lurchings and rumblings, and with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, didst convey her into the hands of Those Who Deal In Feline Torment, saying "Lo; this cat cannot breathe."
And then did the chief tormentor smile the smile of many teeth and little pity, and didst take Sister Hilfy into the Depths for prickings and probings and indignities many and various, and not satisfied thereby, didst send back with the Mom instructions that the torment must further continue even within the fastness of the Promised House, for the Shoggoths were a tenacious evil, and might only be exorcized with suffering.
"Lo, you must set a Dosing for her in the presence of her kin,," quoth the Tormentor, with expression most evilly sympathetic. "For thy pill and thy liquid shall comfort her... sort of. Twice a day, for about two weeks. And then we shall see about more."
Alas, and woe.
And more woe.
And still more woe.
And, after a couple of days, slightly less woe, but still plenty of resentment on the part of the venerable Sister Hilfy, who loved not the Box of Do Not Want, and whose knees were ouchy thank you EVERso, and who took particular care that The Mom might know the extent of her sufferings.
And oh yea verily, did The Mom fucking know.
And yet the shoggoths were not defeating themselves, and even over the Song of Woe could be heard to muster and loom, and whistle their battle cries of Tekeli liiii
from the sinuses of the Faithful, and so it was unto the Dosing that The Mom didst turn.
And the Pills were quartered, the squishy pockets therfore procured, and the eyedropper was filled, and thus armed did The Mom set about The Medicating of Sister Hilfy. And the battle was fierce and long, and much drool was flung, and many claws were slung, and many bribes were utterly scorned, and much medicine was slobbered all over the goddamned patch, but in the end, the liquid and the pill were ingested.
And the Bitching and the Moaning were the first day.
And thus did the battle continue for days; Sister Hilfy steadfast in her refusal to partake her of any goodly thing, and to fight with surprising strength and viciousness for such a skinny little Seniorcat, The Mom steadfast in her resolution that, goddammit, this cat was GOING to get better, and The Dad in the awkward position of agreeing with the both, yet conscripted to Afflict The Indignities because Sister Hilfy is His Goddamned Cat Dammit. And thus might he war have sailed blithely on, had not the Shoggoths marshalled an offensive upon the very instance of The Medicating one morning, resulting in an immediate and voluminous return of all medications, propelled by such copious snot as might have called for the making of an arc, had there been any decent warning.
And in conference and sober contemplation whilst mopping up, (Lo, so much mopping up...) did The Dad and The Mom decide that this just was NOT damn well worth it. And the Tormentor was called, and The Medication was altered, and The Mom didst decide that The Pill was just not happening, and thus was a seeming peace dealt out upon The Promised House... sort of.
For still was there The Liquid to administer, yea upon each and every day. And still was Sister Hilfy, as ever, THE most pointlessly stubborn of creatures ever to set paw into paint and run throughout the house (but that is another parable.) And so did The Medicating become like unto a duel each and every day, The Mom winning each match by way of superior size, opposable thumbs, and a certain pitiless determination common to Mothers everywhere when the good, if not the preference, of Their Faithful is at stake. Though Sister Hilfy, never caring to have a way not her own enacted upon her, didst ever make things as difficult for all concerned as possible.
Unto this very morning, when, syringe loaded, did The Mom approach the Radiator of Battle, whereon did Sister Hilfy lie in grumpy repose, and displaying her weapon, did shout her battle cry of "Okay, sweetie, it's that time." And seizing upon Sister Hilfy's skull, didst lift her face from out of hiding, and prizing open her fierce-clenched teeth, didst poke the syringe deeply in and squirt The Dose far to the back of any bud of tasting, the better that Sister Hilfy might simply swallow and Get It Over With. And holding Sister Hilfy's chin upward, didst gently stroke upon her throat, by way of a hint that she might better swallow than spit.
But Sister Hilfy the Contrary didst, as though in some strange Stockholm's Syndrome with the Shoggoths, didst struggle to lick the whole dose forward in her mouth, despite The Mom's holding-closed of her damned face, the better that she might taste fully of its awfulness, and commence to drool like a goddamned Newfoundland Hound -- and would not swallow. And The Mom did hold, and The Mom did stroke, and The Mom did murmur "You're only making this worse, you know," whilst weathering the most baleful of stares.
And Sister Hilfy did but whistle, and glower, and drool her medicine slowly, by trickles, out of the corners of her mouth. Until finally, half the dose lost beneath her chin, and dripping down The Mom's thumb, did she finally give up and gulp. Then released, did she flee the Radiator of Battle, and didst curse and grumble her lot, and plot her eventual triumph over The Medication, whilst The Mom didst hie her back unto the kitchen to clean her weapons and her hand, and her sweater, stating unto The Dad that, "Your cat is the most pointlessly stubborn creature EVER."
And in reply quoth The Dad, "Well yeah... Hilfy
." The which being simple truth, The Mom hadst no cunning reply.
And watching over The Promised House from the Fair Fields of Napping In Comfy Laps, didst Brother Godric drink of the water of whatever he bloody well wanted to and know plenty, but trouble himself for nothing.This entry was originally posted at http://cluegirl.dreamwidth.org/1488988.html. Please comment there using OpenID.