Pruning cats’ bottoms
Sahara, our long-hair tabby, has had a smelly bottom for two days. Yesterday, I wiped it with a damp paper towel, and she retreated, complaining, under our bed, for the rest of the evening. Had to go to London this morning so I only saw her from a distance.
This evening, having forgotten the previous night’s indignity, she jumped affectionately onto my lap. Yep, still ponged. Wiped her with a baby wipe but nothing came off.
Still ponged.
Noticed that some of her fur was a bit matted and damp-looking, though not actually damp. Locked us both in the bathroom with a pair of delicate little nail scissors.
Went out again for the more heavy-duty dressmaking shears.
This is the point at which Miramon will heave a sigh of relief that he’s in Worcester for a few days.
Shadow came to wail outside the bathroom door that if Fun Was Being Had in there then he damn well Wanted A Part Of It.
Much whining ensued. And wriggling, followed by hissing and attempted clawing. Eventually stuffed her head up my jumper and located the problem. This is where my Australian upbringing has given me the vocabulary appropriate to such a circumstance, and the offending dag was removed. No blood was shed by either party.
Sahara is now deeply offended and looks a bit like she’s had a patchy Brazilian.
No, not really, but the bin is full of fur and A Dag. My jeans and jumper are in the wash basket, Shadow has protested by scattering cat crumbs all over my study, but all’s well that ends well.
Especially for Miramon.
This evening, having forgotten the previous night’s indignity, she jumped affectionately onto my lap. Yep, still ponged. Wiped her with a baby wipe but nothing came off.
Still ponged.
Noticed that some of her fur was a bit matted and damp-looking, though not actually damp. Locked us both in the bathroom with a pair of delicate little nail scissors.
Went out again for the more heavy-duty dressmaking shears.
This is the point at which Miramon will heave a sigh of relief that he’s in Worcester for a few days.
Shadow came to wail outside the bathroom door that if Fun Was Being Had in there then he damn well Wanted A Part Of It.
Much whining ensued. And wriggling, followed by hissing and attempted clawing. Eventually stuffed her head up my jumper and located the problem. This is where my Australian upbringing has given me the vocabulary appropriate to such a circumstance, and the offending dag was removed. No blood was shed by either party.
Sahara is now deeply offended and looks a bit like she’s had a patchy Brazilian.
No, not really, but the bin is full of fur and A Dag. My jeans and jumper are in the wash basket, Shadow has protested by scattering cat crumbs all over my study, but all’s well that ends well.
Especially for Miramon.