Twice a year it happens. As
Spring lumbers tantalisingly over the horizon, flicks the Vs and
lumbers back again, I have to fight with The Cat. The Cat, you see,
is the long-haired variety, and she moults. Now, the little tufts of
hair I find on my newly hoovered floor aren't the problem. And,
really, she's quite considerate in that way, as she sheds in large,
easy to pick up lumps of super-soft fluff. As I say, not a problem,
though a little annoying. No, the problem is the un-shed hair, the
huge lumps of matted stuff and tight little so-near-the-skin knots,
that are the problem. For Jamara/ Jemara/ Jimara (take your pick. I
didn't name her- I inherited her from a friend, so I've no idea how
the name is spelt. Every time we go to the vet, there is a new
spelling. As she can't read and doesn't answer to it anyway, it
probably doesn't matter.) does not like being groomed. Neither does
she like her knots being snipped.
So every February and
November, we have The Fight. I have learned not to pick up the
scissors until I've closed all the escape routes and have her
clamped under my arm. The best technique for solo snipping is to sit
on a bed with her rolled on to her back, and pinned between my
forearm and thigh, which leaves me with two hands free. It's awkward,
but do-able. I have learned to ensure her head is up by my elbow, as
though she's only got two teeth (I warned her about brushing her
teeth; but you can't tell a cat), she can still shred a pigeon with
them.
And, of course, there are the
claws. She's still got every single one of those, so it's quite an
art to avoid the sudden bad-tempered lash or kick. These arrive with
what I can only assume are cat curses, a cross between a grumble and
a shriek.
The snipping over, she rushes
off, her body low to the ground, with ne'er a backwards glance or
thank you for relieving her of all that discomfort. She paces at the
back-door, waiting for the butler, and, whatever the weather,
flounces out into what I laughingly call a garden, just to make a
point. Woe betide any mice or birds who get in her way while she's in
that mood.
By the time she returns, she
has acquired huge lumps of matted fur over her back legs. These are
less of an issue for the beast, and she actually purrs while I pull
the matted fur apart- until I get to the core of it and it might hurt
a little. "No, you don't!" (or words to that effect) I say,
clamping her down with a swift and firm forearm, and while she growls
and squeaks, finish the job. Then she sits in the doorway and gives
me The Eye before wandering off to bat the dog round the head.
And so on to another day, and
remembering next time NOT to wear a fleece jumper or black trousers
when removing those knots. She has, of course, a lot of white in her
fur.
