To anthropomorphize my cat: she's a smart-as-a-whip pill-cheeking 82-year-old grande dame whose appetite--if that is to be used as a gauge--while still dainty, is no longer indicative of imminent death. The pink flecks on the hairs of her chinny-chin-chin are testament to the fierce twice-daily battles she's been having with me, her amoxicillin-pushing live-in caregiver.
The cantankerous old bird...er..cat..er..82-year-old lady...eventually allowed as to as how she started feeling better a few days into the antibiotic ordeal, but there's no way she's going to let that bossy IreneAthena know she's been convinced. There's still a big show of running away in protest after the dropper is emptied, but she's to be found back in her favorite chair within the hour.
So the med-time struggles continue, but the medicine does go down. The amoxicillin bottle is nearly three quarters empty. The vile vials of denamarin and metronidazole, however, sit nearly untouched in the refrigerator because: no way, no how. And, she notes with smug satisfaction, she's none the worse for it.