Pilling a Fatto: A Horrific True Story

This story traumatized me for a few years. It's all true. My neighbors gave me permission to write about it.

Pilling a Fatto

“That video was totally Youtube worthy!” I typed out in response to the instructional video that Bonnie and Brett made. The video showed me how to give their cat Neko (affectionately called Fatto) his daily Prozac while they visit Sri Lanka.

It looked easy enough. All I had to do was sneak up behind the plumpest cat on earth, cover his eyes, and shove the pill into his open mouth.

“Be careful. Cats are pretty nasty biters,” my friend Caitlin had warned me as we vegged out on the couch watching Portlandia.

It was Caitlin’s warning that made me wait until Chad got home from work to check on the cats.

Honestly I was more worried about not being able to find Fatto. Although he’s hard to miss, Brett said he was sick so he might be hiding.

A sliver of orange caught my eye through the window and that meant that Chad was parking Pumpkin (our orange Prius) out front.

Ziggy’s paws made clicking noises on the floor on as he ran to the front door to see Chad walk through it. Chad’s stubble pricked my cheek as he kissed me.

“How did it go with the cats?” He asked while transitioning from wooden floor to tile.

“I actually didn’t go yet. Will you meet me there after dinner?”

I had already eaten.

I grabbed my keys and walked around the block, crunching leaves with my yellow platform sneakers.

I braced myself for the walk up the stairs to their door. Face painting makes my legs sore from lunging, but it was something else that made me hesitate.

Caitlin’s warning echoed in my ear. I was anxious. I’d been looking forward to playing with the cats and introducing them to Ziggy all week. Now I was letting my childhood phobia of Strays and Pet Cemetary get the best of me.

I even stayed up late drawing morbid cat fantasy portraits.

I took some deep breaths and twisted the key. The door clicked open. I walked in and started sweating. This is an old house with no air conditioning.

“Oh man, I should have come earlier,” I thought I smelled cat pee.

I grabbed some bags from the kitchen and descended into the basement where a scrawny white cat came meowing over to me. I cleaned the litter box and went upstairs. My new little friend followed.

I scanned the kitchen and the living room. No Fatto. He wasn’t on the rocking chair or under the table. He wasn’t in the kitchen. No plump black kitty anywhere.

My whole body was damp with sweat, so I hurried up the stairs, calling, “Fatto! Neko? Come get a tr-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeat!”

At the top of the stairs, I started to think this was a bit creepy. My mind flashed back to my nightmares from last night.

“If I don’t find him, he’ll pee everywhere!”

I turned the corner into the upstairs bathroom and there the plump kitty was, sprawled out next to the toilet.

“He he,” I snapped a photo on my phone of a drunk-looking Fatto and went back downstairs to get his pill.

With kitty prozac in hand, I was ready to pill a fatto. At least until I had a sickening realization.

I texted Chad who came running upstairs less than 2 minutes later.

“How serious are you?”

I had run outside because I couldn’t be in the house anymore. Chad joined me about 30 seconds laters, looking ill.

“Oh my God, you’re right! He’s not alive.”

Tears stung my eyes and my stomach lurched. And so with heavy hearts Chad and I did the only thing we could do.

We called our Dads.

My Mom answered and told me that if I told our neighbor friends what happened, their vacation would be ruined. She gave me better advice by telling me to look on the Prozac bottle to get the vet’s number.

The emergency vet informed us we couldn’t do anything without the owner’s permission.

I disobeyed my parents and left a message for Brett to call me right away. But since they were in another country, they didn’t get the message for a while.

“Maybe we can bury him at my mom’s house,”

Chad suggested. As if he didn’t faint at the mention of blood, sickness or death.

Our friends and neighbors, Zach & Naimh were co-pet sitting with us, so we called them. Zach asked us to wait at home and he’d call us after work.

We passed the time by watching TV, and by googling, “what to do if the cat you’re pet sitting dies.”

When Chad’s phone rang, I must’ve jumped 5 feet in the air. I tried to read Chad’s face for clues as he talked to Zach. He looked relieved.

“You guys are amazing!”

He pressed the hang up button and put the phone into his pocket.

I sprung up, desperate for answers. Chad sat down and crossed his ankles on the foot stool. Ziggy ran into the kitchen.

“They took care of it. The cat is in the freezer.”

I was relieved that we didn’t have to touch him. Actually before I realized he wasn’t alive, I did. He felt like the fake stuffed cat at Chad’s Mom’s house.

I was more horrified imagining Bonnie and Brett coming home from vacation, oblivious to what had happened, and finding their pet in the freezer while reaching in for some Ben & Jerry's.

I couldn't reach them on the phone, so I emailed them.

For the next 3 days, Chad and I slept fitfully, if at all. When Chad dozed off, I put my hand on his chest to make sure his heart was still beating.

My ears strained to hear our old dog, Ziggy, snoring.

I saw black cats everywhere.

I was so terrified of going back to their house, and finding the OTHER cat dead, that I forced Chad to go with me every day.

A few days later, Brett texted me. To my surprise he was not upset and he apologized profusely, stating we did the right thing. I felt so relieved.

That night I drowned my troubles in the bathtub and cried about it for the last time.

I enjoy helping people, but I don’t see myself pet sitting anytime again soon. Thank goodness for our great neighbors.

UPDATE: It's been 3 years since I found Fatto dead. In a strange twist of events, I am now a professional pet sitter.

Sources: Photos are from Unsplash. Drawing by me.