In the late aughts I moved to New York City without a job. This is one of the most expensive cities on the planet, but even without having a steady income lined up, the timing felt right. I believed it would all work out somehow.

Part of this belief depended on an evergreen gig economy. As long as there are errands to run, apartments to clean, kids to watch or pets to sit, there are jobs. And having a bevy of friends already here gave me a network of support.

One of these gigs came via a friend who traveled a lot and brought me in as her cat sitter. I'd go from my Astoria apartment where I had two roommates to her Brooklyn one-bedroom where I had glorious solitude during her long weekends away throughout the year.

I had run of the entire place, along with the three feline friends I was there to care for: a young playful male, a middle-aged agreeable female, and an elder cat. This elder cat and I had originally met when we both lived in Pittsburgh, back when she was a standoffish kitten. She now sat in the living room glaring at me like I'd stolen her pension. This cat gave Mommie Dearest addressing the PepsiCo board vibes.

She had a coat made of 101 Cruella Devilles.

For this tale I'll call her, "Bubbles." Bubbles wasn't a cuddler. She didn't crave pats on the head or tailbone-elevating scratches. Bubbles' idea of paradise was existing on an island alone with a drone delivering her wet food.

The years had not been kind to Bubbles, with her arthritis and digestive issues. Also unkind was the younger cats' high energy working her last nerve, affecting her as playfully as a stranger clipping their toenails on the subway. Bubbles was not a fan.

Even with Bubbles' sour reputation, I could understand where she was coming from. I didn't especially like physical affection and wasn't a fan of having roommates, either.

When I arrived for the weekend, my friend almost apologetically prepped me with information about the cats' weekend schedule. With age comes special care, and for Bubbles to still exist on this earthly plane, that special care involved pills. Bubbles apparently had an aversion to the pills and wouldn't take them with food. I may have had opinions about Bubbles' cattitude, but I wasn't about to health-shame the little beast.

And honestly, it wasn't a problem. What my friend didn't seem to know is that I have a secret talent of giving cats their pills. I learned this skill as a teenager from my cat's veterinarian. She showed me how to swaddle the cat with a towel, cradle it like a baby and pop the pill into the back of their open mouth.

I quickly assured my friend that, "Bubbles will take her pills."

This was especially doable since I was staying with Bubbles for the weekend, so I had some wiggle room. I knew we'd get the job done.

"I'll handle it. Enjoy your vacation."

That first night there was no way to conceal what I was up to at the kitchen counter. Bubbles knew her new nightly ritual, and after she heard me open the pill bottle, she knew that I also knew. She ran back to the bedroom.

Giving a cat a pill is a long-game and should be approached as a meeting of equals. I palmed a pill in my hand and respectfully walked to where she was. When I didn't immediately see her, I knelt down by the bed, anticipating a possible scratch to my bare face as I investigated underneath.

No scratches came when I saw that she was completely in the middle, hard to reach from any of the three open sides. She'd apparently used this strategy before; it was a good one.

As we made eye contact, I said "Hello, Bubbles." in the kindest, cooing-est voice I have. She didn't hiss or growl which was a good sign, but she didn't blink. She looked worried. I understood. That's my energy at the dentist.

I continued, "I know that you know what I have. And I know that you know that you have to take it. We can make it go really fast and then it'll be all done. I'll be back in a few minutes. You stay here." Then I went back to the living room to give her some more space.

I liked adding, "…stay here." as if her moving were even a consideration.

When I returned later, I crouched down and made eye contact again. I offered her my fist to smell, expecting her to swat at it. She didn't, but instead hesitantly sniffed it. We continued looking each other in the eye, and while she didn't blink, I did. I blinked slowly and steadily. When she finally blinked back, I stretched my left arm as far as I could and was able to move my thumb and forefinger under her front legs. With comfortable access to her torso, she didn't resist when I gently scooped her from her hiding spot.

I continued blinking and cooing at her, calling her "darling" and saying how I'm so proud of her as I picked her up. And as I got her in my arms, in one move, I turned her upside down like a baby. When she opened her mouth, I dropped the pill in the back.

I made sure she swallowed before she scrambled out of my arms. I praised her as I let her go as quickly as possible, minimizing any maiming to my core. She scrambled back under the bed as I continued saying, "Good job, Bubbles. I'm proud of you." With no notable injuries, I turned off the light to the bedroom and returned to the living room to watch tv with the other cats.

While the physicality of this went smoothly, she was still the same Bubbles. I figured that experience may have taken a toll on her feline feelings. So I was heartened when sometime within that following hour Bubbles joined us, from a distance. We blinked eyes at each other. Respect.

The subsequent pill deliveries were more uneventful. By late afternoon Sunday, I was packed to return to Astoria but took a few more minutes to enjoy my surroundings. We were all so comfortable that I lost track of time and accidentally stayed late enough for my friend to open her front door to a scene of us all cuddling on the couch watching TV. Well, Bubbles was on the back of the couch but that was close enough to a cuddle from her. It all worked out somehow.

Here are some general guidelines for giving a cat a pill.

• Give yourself time. If you can only stop by for an hour or so, try giving the cat the pill at the end of the hour, after they've gotten used to your being there.
• Slow Blinking. Studies show that this is a cat smile. when I talked to Bubbles under the bed, I blinked slowly as I spoke sweetly to her.
• Have treats handy. You can give most cats their medicine wrapped in food. If that's not an option, at least be sure their dish is full of fresh food and water for immediately after.
• If possible choose a room that has the least furniture. If the cat has the home court advantage, they'll know the hiding spaces. Try to do this in a room with fewer hiding places (this is not always an option).
• Be kind. If the cat scratches you, it's because they are afraid. They will pick up on your energy, so if your energy is calm and loving, they will catch on. Eventually.

Further advice from veterinarians can be found on the internet, and here are some other incredibly smart and positive ways to pill your cats.

"Never let anyone shame you into doing anything you don't choose to do. Keep your identity." ― Jacqueline Susann, Valley of the Dolls