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Pilling a cat. Ha! Let's get serious. We all know this is an unfeasible task for the general population. There's good reason why that "How to Pill A Cat" joke, complete with instructions for dialing 911 and downing a fifth of bourbon, has been floating around cyberspace and making regular appearances in our e-boxes for years. Somewhere buried deep in our collective subconscious, we know that taming a wild boar is a cakewalk compared to pilling a domestic cat. Some people just won't admit it.

A few have conquered the challenge and truly mastered the skill. They tend to rub it in our faces. "It's simple to pill a cat once you learn the proper technique," lecture the experts and how-to books. "Well what do you expect from THAT kind of cat?" snort the elitists who like to think their cat or breed holds some divine superiority over all others. "Huh? Can't you just put the pill in the food bowl?" wonder the clueless dog lovers who have no concept of feline strength or determination.

Then come my personal favorites: Those who offer unsolicited advice, sometimes ad nauseam, on the proper technique. Each claims his method will work on ALL cats. I used to attend to them sincerely. Now I smile politely and giggle silently while they preach. Hold you cat from behind. Grab him from the front. Nab him from the side. Get an assistant. Do it alone. Wrap him in a towel. Lock him with your elbow. Pin him with your knee. Sneak up on him from behind, while he's sleeping, when he's in the litter box, during a meal. Use a pill popper. No, not that one. THIS brand of pill popper. Stay away from pill poppers. Use your fingers. Be firm. Be gentle. Sing. Don't utter a word. Not even a guttural sound. Get the pill in the very back of his mouth, in the middle on the left side, to the right. Hide the pill in food. Crush it into powder. Dip it in tuna juice. Hold his mouth closed. Rub his throat. Blow in his face. The most amusing came from a friend who swore any cat would eat flagyl as long as it had a droplet of margarine on the tip. I'm not sure who was more foolish - her for suggesting that or me for actually thinking it might work.

I do not blame my cats. None of my pilling attempts have worked on any cat regardless of their activity level, intelligence, friendliness, temperament, or willingness to cooperate with other demands I make of them. No, this is my fault. After years of denial, I have come to accept the fact that I will never be able to pill a cat. It's not for lack of trying. I'm not the type who gives up on a new technique after a few unsuccessful trials. I am tenacious, determined, and downright obsessive, and will keep trying until I have to paint all the walls to hide the cat foam stains. I'm not generally dense either. This deficit is more akin to suffering from a specific learning disability, catpillnocandoism. I SHOULD be able to get the hang of this. Others have. Alas, I cannot. I must have received a head injury early in life that permanently damaged the section of the cerebral cortex that controls cat-pilling functions. I give up.

Last year, my baby cat, Lightning, was diagnosed with severe hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. His veterinary cardiologist felt Lightning probably had only a few more days to live, yet he wanted me to give Lightning a quarter tablet of medicine twice a day. I refused. Lightning was not going to spend his last few days on earth wrestling me and foaming at the mouth. No thanks, Doc. Then he uttered what turned out to be the two most beautiful words any cat lover could ever hope to hear: Compounding pharmacy. What? I had read about these things but didn't believe they actually existed. It turns out they're everywhere, even online. There's one just blocks from my house. They even deliver.

Compounding pharmacies are fabulous, magical places that turn vile-tasting tablets into delectable liquids. Irrespective of which medicine a furbaby needs or what his tastes dictate, a good compounding pharmacy can turn almost any medication into a palatable, sought-after delight. Lightning beat the odds and did not succumb to his heart disease within a few days as predicted. He's still living, happy, and slurping up compounded medication twice a day. He loves it! I fill a syringe and shout, "Medicine time." Lightning comes bounding down the stairs and crawls up my pant leg to get his dose. He's not satisfied with his measly 1 ml and always wants more. So he cleans every last drop off the syringe much like little kids like the beaters after their moms put the cake in the oven.

Over the past year, we've experimented, as Lightning has become quite the compounding pharmaceutical connoisseur and a bit of an epicurean snob. He's shared with me a few feline gastronomy tips. Plain fish flavor is banned. Chicken is bland. Beef is acceptable, but nothing to meow about. Tuna can be mediocre to superb depending on the vintage. For the best treat in town, Lightning recommends "Three Fish Flavor," a combination of tuna, salmon, and sardines. Figures he'd select a gourmet item.

The nicest phenomenon to emerge from all this is that medicating Lightning has become a fun event and a great bonding experience. He doesn't realize he's being medicated. All he knows is that twice a day he's indulged with something really special, something his brother kitty doesn't get, something wonderful just for him. I love administering his medicine, and he loves me for it.

I just gave you some unsolicited advice.