To shear a cat is to battle the gods. Okay maybe that’s a bit of a stretch but with my Nigel it might as well be full out armageddon. The claws doth come out. And kitty incisors, large ones like Fred Flintstones other pet, the saber toothed tiger also did a cameo. There were guttural, demonic growls. Razor sharp claws and teeth embedded into my arms and hands. Hair flying everywhere. I became a disintegrated man; a beaten, punctured pile of flesh. And when the dry ice cleared, it was just a memory.
My bushy pussy cat Nigel has been long over due for a shave job. Years ago she began developing thick mats in her furr and so I enlisted a groomer, some french girl through a work associate to alleviate the problem. I brought Nige to her and about thirty hardcore minutes later it was done. Nigel hated every second, as did I, but the job got executed and that was that.
Nine months or so later these mats began reappearing on Nigey’s fuzzy body so it became apparent this will be an ongoing thing with her. I hesitated a bit and then attempted to have the groomer come to us. Nigels step-sister Whitney Spears was in need of a manicure (caticure?) so bringing them both somewhere was not an option. Whitney has demonstrated an amazing ability in the past to not let herself be put into a cat carrier. It simply cannot be done.
So I needed somebody mobile and this chick was apparently scared of winter driving. And when covid hit, you guessed it, she was scared of that too. I had spoken to a couple others but one was annoying and the other charged like forty bucks more so we were hooped for a while there. We all just got used to not wanting to touch the cranky Nigel as her mats made her feel like I can only describe as a cat covered in giant tumors. Pretty sick shiznit.
Time ticked away and to be honest I knew that when it was finally to go down it wouldn’t be any picnic. And sure enough, the pieces fit together and someone graced our home with her shears, trimmers and prescence. I was instructed to hold the scruff of Nigels neck which would gain me ultimate control. If only she stayed still this plan would have worked just fine. And there were actual moments, say thirty seconds a pop, where she was docile. But the other twenty seven or so minutes.. oh em gee, right?
She bites on a regular basis though typically just a nip to say eff off but this was real chomps. If I let her she’d have severed my right wrist. Teeth, claws, rolls, twists.. it was like she had been trained as a navy seal at one point and she knew all the necessary means to survive. I swear she did like a side ways jujitsu flip then played dead momentarily, her eyes gauging this person removing all her fluffy clothing. She was like a hawk. A cat hawk. Circling and watching her prey before pouncing and killing the crap out of it.
Let’s just say she made me bleed my own blood. She also took a few missed nips at the groomer, bless her tortured soul. When the last strip of fur had been shorn and she said something to the tune of “we’re done” it was like Christmas morning on steroids. Never had I been happier to let go of a living creature that wanted to eat my intestines. She was free! As was I. And dare I say the two minute nail trimming of Whitney was almost worse than the thirty minute Nigel shave? I dare but it’s another story. A boring-er one.
Is there a moral to this catscapade? No. I mean don’t have cats as pets could be one. But when you’ve invested into the care of a fluffed up feline you gotta be prepared to keep up with the maintenance. Obviously I’m not keeping up and therefore took a hard kick to the teeth today but I had it coming I think. The hair has settled and my wounds have clotted. There’s no ill will. She doesn’t hate me and I don’t hate her. We are simply two roomates trying to make it in this wretched world. One bite at a time.