I didn’t want to drug my cat. Let me start from the beginning. Tigger—I call him my grandpa’s cat, but he’s been my cat for almost a year now—came with information passed along as people shared about their darling children: “He plays with the printer paper,” they said, as if it were a harmless, quirky habit. I imagined him batting at pages as they floated whimsically to the ground. Just like no one tells you how terrible their kid can be until you’re about to watch them, I didn’t learn the truth until I had Tigger for keeps.
The reality was that he didn’t just play with printer paper—he shredded it and tried to eat the toilet paper so often that I had to buy a special cover. No problem, I thought. I’ll give him paper bags to shred. This worked until I got his chronic inflammation under control. Once he felt better, he realized he could bite bigger, tougher items—and that’s when the real trouble started. He began chewing and eating plastic.
No problem, I thought again. I moved a kitty condo to the window overlooking the pool, hoping he’d feel like a king guarding his palace, entertained by the world outside. Both Tigger and his sister enjoyed their new digs, but the chewing didn’t stop. Worse, he stopped spitting out his plastic prizes and started swallowing them.
One Sunday, as I got up from my comfy seat on the couch to wrestle yet another plastic piece from his jaws, he swallowed it whole. That was the breaking point. I was convinced this was the day he’d need emergency surgery. (And yes, I’d already tried giving him a dog Kong toy under supervision—that distraction lasted about a week, at most.)
We are now a week into giving him medication for his pica, and I have to say I was skeptical—largely due to my own experiences with medication. All I keep thinking now is that I wish I had done it sooner. He no longer bites my leg when I’m making their plates at mealtime, though he still tries to steal his sister’s food. He seems much more comfortable in his own skin, and everyone is breathing easier now that I’m not chasing him around the apartment to rip plastic out of his mouth. I resisted medicating him for so long, but I’m starting to realize he was suffering, and he had no way to help himself feel better. I was afraid the medication would make him lethargic or cause him to lose his personality, since mood-altering drugs—especially mood stabilizers—are strong substances. It took me years to find the right medication for myself, and I didn’t want to make his anxiety worse or accidentally throw him into a depressed state. But I knew something had to change; he was no longer safe.
Looking back, I realize that doing what’s best for Tigger sometimes means overcoming my own fears and biases. Watching him settle into a calmer, happier routine has been a relief for both of us. I’m grateful I finally made the decision to try medication, even if it took me longer than I’d like to admit. Tigger is still very much himself—curious, mischievous, and loving—but now he’s able to enjoy life without the constant compulsion to chew and eat things that could hurt him. Sometimes the most compassionate choice is the one that lets our loved ones feel safe in their own skin.
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