Nail-clipping

No daggers for Finny!

                OUCH!  Darn that Finny!  He’s supposed to be the good child!  It must get to him to have to be the nice guy all the time because every now and then he rebels just a little. It always occurs at night when we’re sleeping and I’m always the target.

                Finny learned long ago that if he stands on the floor, slides his front paw between the sheets, and swipes back and forth, eventually his sharp claws will make contact with skin.  Due to the surprise nature of the attack, it’s good for maximum reaction—kicking, shouting, and cat flinging (not Finny, of course, because he’s safely on the floor).

                The day after a Finny attack, future-son-in-law usually gets a call to schedule a nail-clipping appointment.  He deserves a medal—between the five cats there are 90 nails to clip.  It’s a thankless job that involves loud dramatizations from the felines, fast paced games of catch-me-if-you-can, and life or death wrestling matches.  The cats can turn this simple, one minute procedure into a ten minute blood bath.  Once Frank dragged out the event for a good hour that ended with him wrapped in a coat with only one paw sticking out at a time.  He’s now accepted the futility of struggling and faces the clipping with a silent brooding anger.  Biff, on the other hand, plays hard to get but once caught, flops over limp and defeated.  The rest of the clowder  try to burn holes through their tormentor with their evil eyes.

                I don’t know what we’ll do when our daughter and her fiancé get married and move away.  My husband and I can only get about two nails trimmed per attempt.  It would take us a month and a half to get them all and then it would be time to start over.