This is My Cat, Xanax

Xanax is a worried individual. I guess that’s understandable; he began his life in a dumpster. My girlfriend is a cat-fanatic-never-miss-a-chance-to-save-a-life type person. She wears a pussy hat. I wish she wouldn’t. Anyway, Phoebe and I were walking down Tyler Street past that dumpster near the Taco Bell, and I swear there was silence.

But Phoebe’s radar ears heard mewing. She dug in the dumpster among the nacho shards, hot sauce, and slimy old burritos, and there he was. Trembling, small, and sick.

He quivered all the way to the vet. No wonder. He was a nanosecond away from starving to death.

We got him all the meds. Fluids. Antibiotics. We took him back to the apartment and wrapped him in Phoebe’s dirty sweatshirts. “That way he’ll bond to my scent and feel cozy.”

He didn’t. He shook. He hissed. He trembled. He clawed. According to Phoebe, as she put the third band aid on her forearm, “He is traumatized, but will calm down. Really (adding band aids four and five)!”

He did calm down somewhat after medication. Now he purrs at Phoebe and bites me when her back is turned.

But I prevailed with sardines and catnip. Now he only bites me once a day when I give him his Xanax. Then he gets all mellow and bumps my legs under the table. Adorable until he buries his claws in my calf.

Phoebe and I are on Paxil.

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