Today was a good day, or a sad one depending on which side of the human/feline divide ones occupies in our household.
It was good for me because I had a list of things to do, and I did them all. Now, there were only three things on this list (besides the usual “eat lunch”, “have nap”, but I don’t need a list to remember those), but the second was one of those things that really should have been done about two and a half years ago, and which facilitates another to-do that could have been done nearly three years ago. So it was very satisfying to get done.
The first thing on the list was just work, but the third was something that I’ve been putting off for weeks, and has been REALLY needing doing. It’s just kind of a chore for me, but it’s a whole bundle of no fun for Pyewhacket, who emerges from it looking like this:
Being a cat who is that magical combination of rather fat, extremely furry, and disinclined towards upkeep of personal hygiene, she ends up very matted and grungy after a while (especially if we don’t brush and bathe her regularly, which we don’t, at least not nearly enough to keep up with all the fluff). So the clippers come out, and while she doesn’t enjoy it at all, with enough treats and firm holding she more or less becomes resigned to the process. But not so resigned that she doesn’t periodically try to escape, resist holding still, and in general make it very difficult to do an even job of it.
So the poor thing ends up with a terribly unbalanced ruff:
Fortunately she doesn’t get out much (at all, actually) so the risk of social stigma is low, but still. Can’t be good for the fragile kitty ego.
This weekend I’m painting the ceiling (that’s the thing that could have been done almost three years ago). Now there’s a tragedy…