How I Zombified My Cat and Other Stories

The other night, I decided to see what would happen if I didn’t give His Lordship his daily antidepressant. (Okay, so he was hiding under the bed and I was too knackered to flush him out and ram a pill down his throat.)

The change in him – already evident the very next day – was amazing. I hadn’t realised what I’ve been doing to my cat these past few months.

When I woke up, he came to greet me and curl up next to me like he used to. He came to sit in my lap when I was working. He started purring again. By the next day, the peculiar weakness he’d developed in his back legs, which meant he could no longer jump or balance properly, had gone. He began sticking his head where it’s not wanted and getting up to mischief.

I’ve never liked the idea of antidepressants and after seeing them in action I’m doubly convinced. His Lordship became this fat, white, furry zombie that did nothing except eat and sleep. He’d walk away if you tried to stroke him. He even stopped purring! And I thought these pills were meant to make him happy again? He had three days off them and looked happier than he’s been in weeks.

He became a lot noisier all round once he was off the meds, but it was mostly variations on his chirrup noise, which is a lovely, musical sound. There was a transitional period marked by purrs and chirrups, but then … the angst-ridden pacing and loud nocturnal howls returned on the third night and there was nothing for it but to give him half a pill.

Subsequent nights have ended in medication, too: I can’t risk complaints from the neighbours. But once I get back from India, I’m going to find a method of weaning him off the pills. It’s been horrible to realise what it’s been doing to him.

What *is* the next step though – a feline psychiatrist?