The Pioneer Pet drinking fountain in white ceramic.
We got our cat Elsie from the shelter at the beginning of April. Since that time, she has made it a point of consuming barely enough water to stay alive, but no more. Her litterbox is strangely underutilized. Her drinking habits are bizarre. To wit: she approaches her water bowl cautiously, paces around it in a circle, and then begins shoving it with her body so that the water rocks in it wildly and splashes onto the floor. At this point, maybe-- maybe-- she will duck her head into it and lap a few quick laps up the side of the bowl, just where the rim of the water meets the dish. Maybe not, though. Oftentimes she ends up shoving the bowl multiple times, watching the water splash and then calm as though it is not doing what it is supposed to, dammit, and then stalking away in frustration without drinking a drop. I tried putting the water in a bunch of different dishes, but it was always the same.
The vet had opined that she "wanted a fountain." I was a little resistant to that idea: another electrical appliance? For my pet? Come on. Next we'll be taking her for acupuncture. But, as the hydration problem dragged on into the summer heat, I decided it was finally time to cave. Who knew what drinking apparatus Elsie might have become used to during her childhood in another, fucked-up home? Perhaps she didn't even recognize a water dish as being a normal means of obtaining water. So I purchased the device pictured above.
She was curious immediately, and hung around the fountain peering at it and listening to its music (my apartment now sounds like a babbling brook at all times), but did not dare to drink out of it for the first 24 hours. I had to get out the Bowl of Frustration again so she would not just up and die. But, finally, she took a timid lick. And the rest is history. I'm off to buy another bag of cat litter.
The vet had opined that she "wanted a fountain." I was a little resistant to that idea: another electrical appliance? For my pet? Come on. Next we'll be taking her for acupuncture. But, as the hydration problem dragged on into the summer heat, I decided it was finally time to cave. Who knew what drinking apparatus Elsie might have become used to during her childhood in another, fucked-up home? Perhaps she didn't even recognize a water dish as being a normal means of obtaining water. So I purchased the device pictured above.
She was curious immediately, and hung around the fountain peering at it and listening to its music (my apartment now sounds like a babbling brook at all times), but did not dare to drink out of it for the first 24 hours. I had to get out the Bowl of Frustration again so she would not just up and die. But, finally, she took a timid lick. And the rest is history. I'm off to buy another bag of cat litter.