Reflections On Shaving A Cat

Yup, you read that right. Shaving a cat, and not just any cat, but my formally feral thickly coated Tuxedo sporting boy.

It's all part of the care and maintenance of an old cat, I suppose, as he's nearly 17 and gets not only oily fur but huge mats in his floof. It doesn't matter how much I seem to brush or patiently untangle the tiny mats as they form under his chin or in his feline armpits or in the curly mass of floof on his belly (and why his tummy fur is all curly when the rest of him is straight is a mystery that is beyond me, but there it is). It's the build-up over time that suddenly leads new mats to form practically overnight and decide to become SUPERMAT, like it has gained some maniacal superpower that has absolutely no use at all other than to annoy him and concern me as it leaves one thick clump unbudging from his fur.

I'd bathe him if I thought it would help, but he absolutely hates the water (like many a cat does) and brushing his long fur after using a leave-in shampoo spray for cats just snarls his fur all the faster as it acts like it strips all the conditioning away. He's definitely not silky smooth afterwards, that's for sure, though he does pleasantly smell of daisies.

Maybe it's the shampoo? I've purchased specialty cat shampoo in the past, but maybe I need to stumble across some magical formula created in woodland glens where elven kitties all sport silken coats that are 100% guaranteed to be snarl free? Is there such a magical place?

Probably not.

We started out with just gently cutting the mats free as they form, and allowing his dignity to remain intact by it being just a little bit taken off and easily hidden by the surrounding floofs, but these last couple of years it seems like its harder and harder for my poor boy to keep up with his own cleaning regime. And he does groom himself, but it no longer is enough. So he gets a shave every now and again- on average now about every 6 months. As soon as the old haircut grows back into his long sweeping, sweet smelling typical length I know I am just a few short weeks away from taking it all off again.

Thank goodness I live in an area where it doesn't really get cold, and besides, we have central air here, so there are no huge temperature swings in the house- just a comfortable 76 degrees year round.

So today was Round 1 of the latest buzz trim. Usually it's him lying patiently on me while I get the majority of his fur trimmed and cut out the worst of the mats. Tonight or tomorrow will find me doing a Round 2 which is just cleanup so he doesn't have randome tufts sticking out making it look like he's been chewed up and spat out by the lawnmower. I'd happily get it all done in one sitting, but his patience doesn't last that long, and he tries nipping at the clipper and starts squirming. Honestly, he's so patient about the entire process that I am amazed that this once feral cat sits as long as he does without complaint. He doesn't hiss or bite or claw me, and I don't think it's ever really crossed his mind that he could easily do so.

Oliver is a firm believer in not biting the hand that feeds him.

In fact the shaver was put away less than 15 minutes ago and he's already back, looking for a comfortable place to nap on my chair with me.

At least he's not at the point where I have no choice but to bathe him... though I fear that time is fast approaching. His only baths from me came from when he first accepted my touching him and bringing him into the house. That following morning I took him to be neutered only for him to come home filling my car and the house with the smell of a cat who had seriously soiled himself. And no wonder, poor guy. The vet's office cleaned him as best as they could while he was still unconscious, but after two days of him stinking up the house (the cat carrier was not able to be salvaged and went into the trash) I took him into the bathroom and not only went through a bottle of the roommate's dog shampoo (coconut scented) and a lot of tomato juice (which stained him a very interesting black and salmon color), it was then half of a bottle of my own shampoo that was used.

Understandably, Oliver avoided going anywhere near our bathroom for a couple of years.

My sweet floof of a daughter, Pennie, would go absolutely crazy for her cleanup: mats shaved off and then time for the bath. And she needed them. She had hip displasia and was such a chonk that she couldn't reach far enough to get her back or hindquarters well, so enevitably out came the pet shampoo and a bunch of towels and my husband would patiently carry her into the bathroom and firmly shut the doow behind them. As soon as she would hit the water our normally placid princess would let out such howls and cries that I am convinced were full of foul words and threats to dismember every one of us. She was so loud that there is no way the neighbors could not hear her cries, and her brothers would gather outside of the bathroom door to be sure not to miss a single word of it. I am pretty sure her language behind closed doors would have made even a sailor blush.

Out she'd come, all sweet smelling and clean, fur smooshed down like a drowned rat, and furiously stalk off in that stilted walk of hers, to go sit somewhere out of reach and groom what she could reach while it dried. Shortly afterwards she'd announce all was forgiven, hop onto her favorite chair and allow the rest of her to be brushed out before taking a much needed nap. My husband's exit from the bathroom was considerably worse for wear as both he and the bathroom were soaked from the war he had just, well, I wouldn't say won, but maybe a draw- both sides considerably battered.

Poor things.

Samson, thankfully, has never needed a bath or a trim and he's all the better for it, lucky little shorthair. He'd be the one to seriously bite if we even thought of trying.

Sadly, my sweet little girl passed away a year and a half ago, so there are no more baths for her, no more days of difficult walking or pain, and I am grateful for every memory I have of her, even the screaming fits. I'd known my Penelope by sight since she was two days old, as my roommate took pity on her stray mother and allowed mother and kittens a spot in our basement. Pennie's health issues started way back then, some 14 years ago when we had to take her to the vet for an infection on one of her paws thanks to momma not grooming her fully and some birth matter drying into a tightly constricted ring. So here she was, a 2-day old kitten that had to be dosed numerous times a day with an oral antibiotic and not happy at all with the ordeal. I fell in love with her right then and there and even though we eventually gave the other kittens away, Pennie stayed.

I've only ever gotten a cat from the pet store once, nearly 35 years ago... growing up and even now, the cats that come to claim me as their own are all strays or (in Pennie's case) the kitten of a stray. Come to think about it, Cotton wasn't yet claimed by my roommate when she popped out kittens in our front yard... though Annie had named her by then, she was still a stray, so Pennie would automatically have been labelled a stray until we brought them all in a day later, but that's a bigger digress than needed... right?

So what does any of these ramblings have to do with anything? Nothing really. It's just the moment I am in right now.

Remembering my cats in both their good moments and bad.

Nothing earth-shattering or profound from me. Just a few moments of quiet contemplation while Sam snoozes on my lap, next to the keyboard as I type this, and a haphazardly cut Oliver now off in search of a pet or two from my husband, who isn't quite as distracted.

It's only when I look back at how many sweet animals have filled my heart and my life that I recognize how old I actually am. I'd have to be over half a century for so many pawmarks and hoofprints across my heart, but I certainly don't otherwise recognize the passage of so much time. Dang, where did it all go? Towards loving I guess, which really isn't a bad thing when you look at it that way.

So no, nothing too out of the ordinary for me, unless you want to take this as some sort of allegory of how things can just sneak up on us if we are not vigilant or some other deeper meaning. Maybe it is, but if you'll excuse me, Oliver is back for more cuddles, and I have no desire to do anything but to respond with pets and cuddles of my own.

Interpret that however you want.

For My Sweet Baby Bee

I havent picked up this blog in nearly 6 years, so there is a lot that has not been said, but I want to get to that later.

Instead I want to begin by going back, because there is one post in particular I feel needs to be out there now more than ever. While this is being shared for everyone, there is one young woman I am aiming this to specifically, though truly there are so many wonderful women in my life that I hope will take a moment to watch, listen and to remember its message when the world tries to make them feel less than they truly are.

The world has never been more toxic to each other, but moreso to women specifically, and my heart breaks when I think how those I love are in the path of the same slings and arrows that devestated me when I was struggling myself for so long. But then who am I kidding, because even I need reminding of this from time to time when the world grows so loud it threatens to drown out the still quiet voice that speaks calmness and healing to my soul.

So I hope you take a moment to watch, and even if you find yourself not a believer in the Creator of us all, I hope you will apply it to whatever higher power you do look to, even if that higher power is just yourself. And above all, please remember to cherish yourself even when it seems like no one else does.