On Friday I was given a prescription for Xanax. For my cat.

The whole ordeal began a couple weeks ago. I took Bridget to the vet because she was having trouble urinating and that can be a sign of a urinary tract infection which can lead to an obstruction which can be fatal if not caught, especially in male cats. (Remember that, despite her name and the pronoun we choose to use, Bridget is in fact a boy.)

They diagnosed her with cystitis (bladder inflammation) but said it wasn't a bacterial infection. They said it was most likely due to "territorial stress" - apparently this is thought to be a common cause of cystitis in cats. Now, if you have ever met Bridget, you will not for one moment think that she might be stressed, territorially or otherwise. She is the most laidback purringest cat ever, lounging in the lap of feline luxury. (And, every chance she gets, lounging in my lap as well.) But the vet gave me all sorts of suggestions for how I could ease what he believed to be her extreme stress.

I cried all the way home, convinced I was a terrible mother. And then I went to Petco and spent $200 in guilt money on items recommended by the vet. Like a $90 cat water fountain. And a $45 calming pheromone diffuser. No, really - a calming pheromone diffuser.

This was a few days before we left for our vacation, and I was completely angst-ridden about leaving home. I was, you could say, territorially stressed. I nearly canceled the trip several times, explaining to Rob, through sobs, why I didn't think I should go. We had people looking after the cats, of course, but they wouldn't be able to watch for danger signs like I could. They didn't know Bridget's litter habits. They wouldn't know if she wasn't acting like herself. What if she was in severe pain? What if she DIED? I was already a terrible mother, and now I was going to leave her?!

But everyone I poured my heart out to insisted that I go. Including the vet. And Bridget was doing better. So I went. I left ridiculously detailed instructions (what Rob referred to as The Manual) and I called home every day to check on how she was doing. And I even managed to enjoy myself and limit my worrying about Bridget to only two or three times an hour.

And when we returned home, Bridget was just fine. When I spoke with the vet to follow-up, I mentioned that we'd had our metal roof scraped and repainted (a very noisy job) about a week before Bridget started exhibiting symptoms, and that for the three days the contractors were there, Bridget hid under the bed and wouldn't come out. The vet concluded that this "stressful event" is surely what caused the cystitis.

Things were looking up! Bridget was all better, and I wasn't a terrible mother after all!

But then on Friday Bridget stopped peeing again. I took her to see the vet, again. As the tech took her back to give her some fluids, he commented on what a pretty kitty she is and my eyes welled up with tears. Pathetic, but true.

The vet said he thought this time the stressful event that caused it was our trip. Being away from us for 10 days, and having her routine interrupted, was enough to set her off again. He gave me a prescription for anti-anxiety pills, which I'm supposed to administer to her the next time we initiate a home improvement project or leave on a long trip.

"It's basically Xanax," he said as he handed me the script and then turned to leave. He was halfway through the door when he paused, turned back, and said, "There's one thing I should add."

He walked back over to me, stood rather close, and looked me directly in the eyes. "Cat livers process things very differently from human livers," he began. "And so a cat dosage is different from a human dosage."

I nodded.

"So, um, you just need to understand that, well..." He was fumbling, as if searching for a polite way to say this.

"I shouldn't take my cat's Xanax?"

"Right."

Now, what would have given him that idea?