Things Not To Do With Your Cat
Created | Updated Feb 26, 2006
All hell burned in her eyes as she stared me down, claws digging deep into the upholstered arm of the sofa. A hiss escaped her lips in warning, and her ears flattened. I murmured soothing sounds and tried to manuever around to the back, which was her less pointy end, although by no means less dangerous. With a snarl, she spun, standing, and arching her back, now spitting at me in fury. I decided to take my chances, and leapt upon her, scrambling over the couch cushions to fasten my hand around her tail, pulling her back as she tried to escape, yowling loudly enough to make me go deaf. I picked up the brush, and, pulling her close to my body, began to bush whatever parts of her I could find that weren't trying to kill me; that is to say, very little. She spun and spat, claws handing out sharp, painful death, teeth digging into whatever skin or clothing she could find. After five minutes of this, I let her go and leaned back, taking a survey of my wounds. Not bad; I still had all ten fingers.
I do not normally treat my cat this way. However, on this unfortunate day, it is time for her to be groomed, something which neither she nor I look forward to. It has become a ritual; when she sees me prowling into the room at one o'clock on Sunday, she knows that it is time for pain (usually on my part, unless her snarling jaws catch her own self) to begin. Grooming my cat has never been the lovely experience that it seems to be for all of my friends, who are dog people and own dogs. They laugh at me and tell me that I chose the absolute worst animal to forge a grooming relationship with, but I just growl at them and start to brush their dog(s).
When the earth came into being, it was a happy place. It gave us food and water, and lots of pretty places and things to look at and take care of. However, one day it glimpsed what we would do to those pretty places and things and decided to give us a pretty something that we would really need to worry about: the cat. And so, the four-legged feline that rules so many of our lives (including mine) was born. Coming in calicos and gingers and leopard spots, cats appeared everywhere; the Egyptians worshipped their cat-headed goddess Bastet; they were painted being petted by nobles and royalty alike; and of course, they became creatures of mystery, when put in the company of superstitious folk. Cats enjoy being fed, whether this means a human is doing it for them or they are catching small animals and dropping littles bits of them in a variety of places, such as on the door mat, the kitchen floor, and your bed. But one trait remains above all; cats, although they clean themselves many times a day, hate to be brushed/washed/cleaned by a person/etc. But humans still prevailed, and in so doing, began to invent lots of little tricky things to help do the job. There are brushes of various kinds, all with very sharp pointy edges, that the cat will take in its paws/teeth and turn upon you, making you wish that you have never bought the damn thing. There are brushes for thick fur that have lots of spiny, uncomfortable wiry stuff that the cat will do the same with. And let us not forget the detangling combs; those are in a league all of their own.
So today, my cat will win again; however, when next week pulls around, we will go through the same process all over again, and maybe, just maybe, something will get done. Both me and my cat, however, highly doubt it.
I do not normally treat my cat this way. However, on this unfortunate day, it is time for her to be groomed, something which neither she nor I look forward to. It has become a ritual; when she sees me prowling into the room at one o'clock on Sunday, she knows that it is time for pain (usually on my part, unless her snarling jaws catch her own self) to begin. Grooming my cat has never been the lovely experience that it seems to be for all of my friends, who are dog people and own dogs. They laugh at me and tell me that I chose the absolute worst animal to forge a grooming relationship with, but I just growl at them and start to brush their dog(s).
When the earth came into being, it was a happy place. It gave us food and water, and lots of pretty places and things to look at and take care of. However, one day it glimpsed what we would do to those pretty places and things and decided to give us a pretty something that we would really need to worry about: the cat. And so, the four-legged feline that rules so many of our lives (including mine) was born. Coming in calicos and gingers and leopard spots, cats appeared everywhere; the Egyptians worshipped their cat-headed goddess Bastet; they were painted being petted by nobles and royalty alike; and of course, they became creatures of mystery, when put in the company of superstitious folk. Cats enjoy being fed, whether this means a human is doing it for them or they are catching small animals and dropping littles bits of them in a variety of places, such as on the door mat, the kitchen floor, and your bed. But one trait remains above all; cats, although they clean themselves many times a day, hate to be brushed/washed/cleaned by a person/etc. But humans still prevailed, and in so doing, began to invent lots of little tricky things to help do the job. There are brushes of various kinds, all with very sharp pointy edges, that the cat will take in its paws/teeth and turn upon you, making you wish that you have never bought the damn thing. There are brushes for thick fur that have lots of spiny, uncomfortable wiry stuff that the cat will do the same with. And let us not forget the detangling combs; those are in a league all of their own.
So today, my cat will win again; however, when next week pulls around, we will go through the same process all over again, and maybe, just maybe, something will get done. Both me and my cat, however, highly doubt it.
