The night after Colby's visit to the new vet, I went ahead and did another round of Tresaderm, since it was late (per usual) and I was supposed to do it twice a day anyway, and I figured this way we could get one more of the fourteen doses out of the way.
I got out a new treat bag of some different treats (they've had these before, but they aren't the "cutting mats out of your hair" treats or the "trimming your claws" treats). I held out the bag, and the Tresaderm bottle, and asked Colby where he'd like to have his ears treated.
He was on the round Pooh table in the living room, waiting for the wand toy games to start. This was the vet tech's idea; do it right before the wand toy play and hopefully the others will be occupied enough with the playtime not to try to wash Colby's ears "clean," in case they (meaning Thimble) were so inclined.
He stayed there and let me put Tresaderm in both ears. He was not a happy cat and let me know that. The minute I was done he jumped off and went away a few feet and sat there shaking his head and glaring at me. I tossed a treat to him and grabbed Thimble before he could cherry-pick the treat away from an undecided Colby.
Reject the treat and really show her I'm mad and uncomfortable and didn't like what she just did? Or eat the treat and get something nice and tasty out of this whole thing? Colby decided to eat the treat. He was quite pleased when this resulted in him getting another (and me having to grab another dodge pass by Thimble). I don't see why they get the logic confused. Four paws get clipped, four treats. Two ears, two treats. They can count. (Yes, they can, albeit not very high; they just don't seem to think that they should get more than one treat for a reward.)
Well, Colby decided it was okay, and let me pet him, and Thimble came over in case there was some treat left, and there wasn't, but Colby smelled funny, and Thimble then had to give his ears a good sniff.
I needn't have worried about Thimble deciding to wash Colby's ears clean. Thimble was having none of that. He backed away a few inches, with a look of, "I love you, buddy, but no, you can clean those yourself. That smells like it would taste terrible."
And Colby gave him a rolled-eye glare, like "I never asked you to wash them in the first place. Oh, hi, Apricot."
Apricot walked up cautiously. He knew that smell. He knew he knew that smell. It was faint, and almost non-existent, but he was very suspicious about that smell. Colby bent his head a little so Apricot could reach.
Apricot sniffed Colby's ears.
Apricot's own ears went back, not pinned to his head but close, and he bolted across the entire length of the living room (which you'll recall is four rooms that were turned into one, so it's big). From the other side, well out of reach, he glared pointedly at me.
"Oh no, you ain't getting me, no way no how!"
I find it fascinating that they always know who to blame. And they're usually right.
I reassured him that I wasn't going to give him any. He wasn't going around shaking his ears and scratching till they bled, now was he? (No. Colby had scratched his left ear so bad the delicate skin in front of it had bled. I felt horrible on realizing that when we'd been at the vet.)
I told Apricot he was perfectly safe, that even if his ears did get infected I'd insist on something systemic, a pill that he could take and wouldn't bother his ears. I promised.
Apricot listened, more or less skeptically, from the other side of the room, his eyes never leaving me. I was down on the floor with Colby and Thimble, and when Apricot started looking a little less wide-eyed and betrayed, I held out my hand at petting height and slow blinked at him, all the while reassuring him he was safe.
He held out for a few seconds more, and then sighed a little, and came trotting over and petted himself on my hand (which "activated" and took part in the petting as soon as he rubbed against it), and was much relieved that I'd taken the time to reassure him.
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