All in the Name of Nail-Cutting

So my littlest cat Franny does not like to be touched or picked up. I suspect that in the course of living as a neighborhood stray (and a fricking cute one at that), she must've had a few run-ins with not-so-nice people that made her a bit skittish. She also has a big big fear of the garbage truck (she runs and hides all the way upstairs, as far as possible from the front of the house whenever it comes) and I suspect it's due to the same. She's warming up though--she's less skittish around visitors, and she lets me and E pet her, though she's still jumpy if we make too quick of moves around her. Will she let me pick her up though? Hell the fuck no.

And unfortunately, the problem with this is that I am consequently unable to trim her nails. Sunday, I spent a good hot and sweaty 15 minutes chasing her around my apartment in the hopes that maybe, just maybe she'd let me pick her up and E could cut the damn things. But she is a slippery sneaky little devil, and I finally gave up.

So last night I decided that I was just gonna drag her ass around the corner to the vet and let them trim her nails instead.

Oh holy mother of all things traumatic.

I first tried luring her into the hallway with the carrier at the bottom. She remembered from ye ol' spaying that this was evil trickery and so she refused to go in. Then I tried with the bathroom. As this was new trickery, she was unsuspecting, so I lured her in with treats and then promptly slammed the door shut with Zooey outside so that she wouldn't interfere. Immediate panic seeped into her eyes and she tried to sneak into the corners. I had the carrier wedged next to the toilet and tried to usher her in with a towel BUT SHE WOULD NOT BUDGE. Then she managed to escape and jumped into the bathtub, her eyes wheeling around the room hysterically in an attempt to figure out how to escape.

And then the plaintive kitty wails began. Break my fucking heart, lemme tell you. She started crying and crying and crying. And this made Zooey, who was trapped on the other side of the door and unsure of what was going on, begin to meow loudly as well. I finally caught her up in a towel while she cowered in the corner, trembling, and managed to pick her up and hold her for a second. Intense fear was in her eyes while she stared at my face just inches away, but I finally managed to get her in the carrier.

I was out of breath. She was out of breath. Everyone was semi-hysterical. I was sweaty, my bangs plastered to my forehead, all because I JUST WAS TRYING TO BE NICE AND GET HER NAILS TRIMMED SO THAT THEY DIDN'T GROW INTO HER FEET.

Yes, I am a sadistic prick.

She was mad at me and overheated when we returned home--she spent about 1/2 an hour out on the roof panting and cleaning herself. I sat and watched her and tried to calm my jangly nerves with a beer.

Thankfully, despite all the trauma, she forgave me and let me play laser with her last night.

End result of said trauma (and karmic kitty retaliation in the realms of the subconscious?): a night full of elaborate dreams about my house catching fire and me trying to save Franny from the flames by whisking her off in my arms.


Franny keeping herself cool in the 90° heat

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