My mother shook down the local vet in my hometown for some kitty valium in order to subdue my big sweet baby Murphy on the 10-hour drive to NOLA. Of course, after forcing the pill down Murphy's throat, I spent the next 20-minutes terrified it was somehow lodged in her windpipe ala my fault. I then theorized she might only be living by breathing through her nose, and putting my face right in her smelly kitty mouth to see if I could register inhales and exhales.
Murphy wobbled all over the empty apartment. She almost fell out the open window. And then I forced her into her kitty carrier while she gave a half-hearted hiss. I was sure she'd be passed out soon. I'd seen the same drunk-dialer eyes on my friends Tyler and Michael right before they either cried or took their clothes off, or god forbid both. I imagine Murphy would shed her fur, and I would discover a hairless emotional animal in the cage later in the day.
This scene would have been more well-received. After being in the carrier for awhile, Murphy began meowing, whine-meowing. Then I picked the carrier up and sat it in my lap and baby-talked her. Then I put the edge of the cage toward the A/C Vent and turned it up to a million. Then I looked at Murphy's face. And I discovered this: 
The above picture is not a rabid cat, althought I bet rabid cats look this way. She's just panting. Apparantly, my own partiality to panic attacks has been passed down to my pet. She's shedding. She's breathing heavily. She's talking out of her head. Aaron (My amazing BF who drove this cat and me, the psycho-cat mommy the whole ten hours down there.) suggests that maybe Murphy has to pee. We pull over and usher her around awkwardly in the grass. She doesn't pee, but she stops panting. We think maybe she just can't stand the cage. So, the rest of the drive, we let her wander around the van. She still pants every few minutes. And she scratches the living shit out of my legs whenever I have to keep her from crawling under the gas pedal and brake. But no pyschosis. And kitty valium is for the birds.
The above picture is not a rabid cat, althought I bet rabid cats look this way. She's just panting. Apparantly, my own partiality to panic attacks has been passed down to my pet. She's shedding. She's breathing heavily. She's talking out of her head. Aaron (My amazing BF who drove this cat and me, the psycho-cat mommy the whole ten hours down there.) suggests that maybe Murphy has to pee. We pull over and usher her around awkwardly in the grass. She doesn't pee, but she stops panting. We think maybe she just can't stand the cage. So, the rest of the drive, we let her wander around the van. She still pants every few minutes. And she scratches the living shit out of my legs whenever I have to keep her from crawling under the gas pedal and brake. But no pyschosis. And kitty valium is for the birds. 
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