Or at least my cat is braver than me. I am a tear-sodden underslept wreck, racked with anxiety and a sense of impending doom; Harry is a sleepy, friendly, loudly-purring perfect patient, trying his best to eat despite a sore mouth, letting me wash his face and paws till he can manage for himself, and not complaining at all. This mild-mannered compliance does not extend to a willing acceptance of medication, however, which is where I score for being bigger and more determined than him, and, thanks to months of practice on Kevin, having a deft hand with a syringe. Harry can clamp his jaws like a pit bull terrier, but has to yield eventually. The vet's propaganda about palatable medicines is clearly a Big Fat Lie.
Thank you to all for the support, kind words, understanding of what it feels like when a beloved pet is sick, and, Lesley, for the Maltesers. The dog loves a Malteser too; she carries them about in her tiny almost-toothless mouth until they go soggy. (I hasten to add, before the sensible dog-people amongst you start to bristle in indignation, that the toothlessness came first, even before the dog came to live with me, and well before the rare treat of a sweetie.)