Shaving our cat was not something we did solely to amuse ourselves, although random giggles and heartfelt guffaws have been a glorious benefit.
Cleo is like the dirty kid that refuses to comb her hair, bathe, brush her teeth or change her clothes. Grooming is not a skill Cleo developed due to premature removal from her litter, and as a result Constance and I are forced to cut clumps, knots and random objects out of her fur. She refuses to allow a brush to caress areas beyond her spine, which makes it impossible to keep her fluff from frolicking about our home – it clings to frying pans and sofa cushions, and it drops onto your tongue like an ashen snowflake when you least expect it.
So, we shaved her. And honestly, she’s never seemed happier. Constance thinks she looks like a 60s Go-Go dancer. My friend Tim thinks she looks decidedly ill. Personally, I have never been more endeared to an animal in my life, and feel a modicum of comaraderie with my favorite feline. I hated my hair and on the day I shaved it for the first time, I felt freedom from worry and loathing, and I can see the same in Cleo’s eyes.
It will be helpful in our new home, too. Closing has been delayed until Thursday, which leaves us a lot less time to get ‘er done. On top of that, Constance has to visit Dr. Reya’s office at 6:00AM tomorrow to chart our next steps.
But at least we’ll have our shorn kitty to bring a smile to our faces in the face of stress.