Upon picking me up from college, the first thing my ten year old brother said to me was, “Wanna go to the salon? This mani is ready for his pedi!” While he seemed enthusiastic, my cats never enjoy my attempt in pampering them: aka cutting their nails.
You see, cats are very independent creatures in most areas of life. My cats even came trained to use the litter box, and trust me that was handy. Except for the times when they don’t even need to go to the bathroom, and instead pretend to be a world renowned archaeologist digging for the lost broom of Danny Tanner. But of course as soon as they are in the same room as the clippey scissors of death, their brains go haywire. I’m talking more haywire than when you feed them green olives. (If you haven’t ever fed your cat a green olive, be cautious, it’s like dope for cats.) One of my cats, the creepy one with big eyes and no tail, makes a wretched screaming noise when the clippey scissors of death get within five feet of his furry bottom. Upon reaching for his paw, he maims my delicate flesh with his nasty, awful, long toenails: at which point, I really wish his nails were cut.
I see what you’re trying to tell me. Go to the vet, right? Have them deal with it, right? No. What hurts worse? My face or an empty wallet? That’s right. I thought so. You better believe I take as many packets of free dog food samples as I can fit in my purse when I go, and I don’t even have a dog! But maybe someday I will.
His name will be Robbie and he will be a German Shepherd-Great Dane mix and we will go for walks in the doggie park, and share a dream beneath the stars along the sand dusted beach. I mean, that could happen. But it’s not like I think about it all the time.
You win this round, Catalano.