Reflections - Slice, Snip, Temporary Peace

Spence Holding Gilbert's Paw with Claw Extended

Bang. Clatter. A cat’s claws scratched the wood floor and Spence bellowed.

I abandoned my quilting in the loft, shouted “Are you all right,” and hurried down to the kitchen.

Legs sprawled, butt planted on the floor, and hands gripped onto the edge of the pushed-back kitchen table, Spence growled. “I was pouring chicken broth. Rills leapt on my back.” Spence waved an arm over broth splattered across the tile floor by the stove. “His claws dug in.” Spence winced. “We’re close to the fifteenth.”

Spence lost two-thirds of his chicken broth on February 11. The second week of any month is dangerous at our house because claw-clipping day is the fifteenth. Normal cuddles get prickly approaching that time. Cats curl up to sleep with us, knead our bellies or arms, and leave perforations. A friendly tap can lacerate.

Once I lifted Gilbert for a hug. Surprised, he flung his left paw. His claw sliced my upper lip. Blood gushed. I set the scimitar waving feline down and pressed a handkerchief against the flow. Not the place for a Band-Aid. When the hankie filled, I grabbed a washcloth and ice. I lay on the sofa until the flow subsided.

“I’ll drive you to the emergency room.” Spence jingled his keys.

“No!” I had the bleeding under control, didn’t want stitches in my lip, and would have felt silly explaining the injury.

Though the lip dripped off and on, it eventually formed a blood blister—my badge of stupidity for a week.

We weren’t the only ones in danger from the growing claws. Formerly, we’d let the vet clip cat claws on the yearly visits for check ups and shots. That had worked until our beloved long-haired George hobbled in his old age. A claw grew into his toe bean, the digital pad. The vet carried him to the back room and dug the claw out much to the horror of George and the entire veterinary staff.

Therefore, I bought a pair of clippers and requested claw-clipping lessons from the vet to celebrate the three tabby brothers’ first birthday. Cats have blood vessels in their claws, and I didn’t want to create a gusher like cats’ scimitar claws could. After four years of monthly clippings, we all had plenty of experience.

This February, I fetched clippers and treats while the cats slept. But the savvy tabby brothers woke and scampered.

Spence scooped up Gilbert, who’d hidden in the basement. Returning, Spence stood under the spider plant by the sliding glass door where the light is best for viewing the vessel inside the claw. He restrained Gilbert. I held the paw in my left hand and pushed the claw away from the toe bean. Positioning the clipper around the nail past the end of the blood vessel, I snipped—if Gilbert hadn't pulled his paw away first which he frequently did.

 

Gilbert's Claws Clipped

I focused on each claw, and Spence crooned. “You’re well behaved. The best cat so far.”

Limp, Gilbert wiggled a bit in resignation for his front paw clipping. He kicked out like a soccer player when I clipped his back paws.

Spence collected Ande from the bedroom. Positioned in the light by the sliding glass door, Ande tensed. As soon as I touched his front paw, Ande let loose a me-yowl.

“It’s scary. But it doesn’t hurt.” Spence cooed.

Ignoring the yowls, I clipped the four obvious claws and reached for the claw further back on his front paw. Ande squirmed. Anticipation and the sight of the clippers bothered him more than the actual snip.

Spence scratched the tabby’s chin and murmured. “You're a big boy. It’s almost time for treats.”

Ande’s hind paws distressed him less—out of sight, only the click of completion disturbed him. I dispatched the four pointy poniards on each foot without getting kicked in the chest.

Ande gobbled tuna treats. Gilbert didn’t need treats for his cooperation.

 

Rills

Spence found Rills, tired of hiding and curled with the old teddy bear on the guest room bed. “Your turn, Rills,” Spence said, carrying the tabby to the bright light.

The cat’s yellow eyes glanced at me calmly then turned into daggers like his claws when he spotted the clippers. He’d mellowed over the years though I’d learned to pull his front leg away from his mouth. I didn’t need another potent piercing from his teeth, wicked sharp like his claws. Rills squirmed, rolled over in Spence’s arms, and pulled his paw out of my hand.

“That’s not nice, Rillsy.” Spence repositioned the cat. “Janet’s helping you.”

Snip, snip, snip. Claw-clipping is an exercise in endurance. Humans always win. We just need time.

I offered Rills his treats. He gobbled and fled—not ready to trust people. Clippers and treats put away, I swept claw bits and anticipated sweet days of comfort.

By the door, Spence put on his red jacket, and Rills raced to say goodbye. The cat extended his claws to climb Spence’s jeans but stroked the denim leg in vain.

In the kitchen when Spence sauteed veggies, Rills leapt and bounced off Spence’s back, giving him a hardy buddy slap rather than a gouging.

I hugged all three cats in the mornings—prick, slice, and gouge free.

None of the tabbies hobbled because a claw had grown into his toe bean. Not a bellow was heard. Of course, during the second week of next month, forty-two claws will have grown back, and we’ll endure accidental assaults until the fifteenth.

Ande

 

 Reflections - Travails of Tattered Teddy

Teddy

The teddy bear’s golden amber eyes glittered, matching the sparks in my mother-in-law’s eyes. Having driven the cute teddy from Pittsburgh to Cleveland, she crouched beside the cradle Spence made for our son and dangled the bear above baby Charlie’s head.

Charlie slept.

“The bear’s precious, Mom.” I took the teddy from her hand and set it in the corner of the cradle beyond Charlie’s feet. “He’ll love it.” Five decades ago, I’d intended to be polite, not a prognosticator. 

Still new at motherhood, I viewed the world differently than I had months earlier. Those hard eyes might scratch my tender baby or be swallowing hazards. Before Spence climbed the unfinished wood stairs to our second floor apartment above a cash register repair shop after waving his mom off on her road trip home, I snatched the bear and sewing scissors. The first jab with the blade’s tip next to a golden eye exposed my folly. I struggled to free each orb. Charlie couldn’t have swallowed the eyes. I’d been overly cautious, but the breach had been made. I had to repair what I’d ruptured. Hours later, the safe golden eyes were out. In their place I’d stitched soft, black flannel patches. 

Charlie snuggled the black-eyed teddy.

In his twenties, our son packed for a UPS job in Columbus. “Mom, could you patch Teddy?” Charlie flopped Teddy’s arms back and forth. The bear’s underarm seams leaked white stuffing. 

Digging through a bag of fabric scraps, I found brown close in color, cut ovals, and pushed the stuffing back inside Teddy’s pits. With the spiffy new patches stitched for underarms, Teddy moved to Columbus. No matter that his fur had matted and eyes had worn, he flung four limbs wide in a cheerleading pose. Patched Teddy could dazzle.

Decades later Charlie moved twice to be nearer his aging parents. The first move accommodated a transfer to Franklin UPS, actually located in Seneca, Pennsylvania. When he checked on us at Wells Wood one weekend, he approached me with stuffing cascading from his cupped hands, reverently held in front of his chest. “I killed Teddy.” His lower lip protruded in contrast to his manly shoulders and shaved head.

“What happened?” I fingered the fluff—dry, soft, and clean.

“Teddy looked dirty so I washed him.” Charlie handed me the fluff and retrieved Teddy, emaciated as if he’d been on a crash diet.

“No worries.” I took the bedraggled bear. Though his muzzle shone sunny day cloud-white again, Teddy’s left leg hung hollow. “I can’t fix him now, but—”

“Take your time.” Charlie brought me more fluff from the dryer then packed his bags for the three-quarter hour drive back to his Seneca apartment and preparations for work the next day.

The following week, I stuffed and stitched. More than Teddy’s leg had hollowed. He lost his foot and a piece of his right ear. Half a dozen seams split. Countless stitches later, Teddy was intact again.

When Charlie’s second transfer to Meadville UPS came through, he moved into Wells Wood to avoid an hour and a half commute from Seneca. Teddy came along, of course. The two settled into the guest room, delighting our three tabby cats.

This situation hummed along smoothly until our Oregon friends Eric and Kay scheduled a visit. In the past, Eric had slept in my bedroom and Kay in the guest room. “They can sleep in the double bed together,” I told Charlie.

“I’ll sleep on the floor in the basement,” Charlie countered.

I hoped I’d given up overprotective mothering years back. After all, I let Charlie do his own laundry, cook his own food, and only carried Teddy away to stitch if requested.

But sleeping on the concrete floor? Not acceptable. 

Mother-bear Janet adopted the previously unacceptable crazy idea Spence and Charlie had batted around of a man cave, without windows, in the basement. Charlie could have his own bathroom and privacy. If I moved to the loft bed, the older folks' perks of sleeping alone—so that snores or restless legs kicks didn’t keep beloved partners awake—would be preserved. Eric and Kay could have their normal arrangements. 

Charlie and Teddy moved to the man cave a few days before the visitors arrived. 

Teddy didn’t stay. After our friends left, Charlie tucked Teddy under a brown flannel blanket in the guest room, giving Teddy his very own bed—well, not for long.

 

Rills and the Old Teddy Bear

Rills, a champion cuddler-cat, curled on the blanket and snuggled against Teddy’s head during morning naps. The feline stretched out against the bear in the afternoons. Rills rolled on his back with paws up beside his adopted Teddy for a month before the other tabby brothers approached the bear. 

When Rills took a break one day, shy Gilbert jumped onto the bed and lay next to Teddy. Rills pranced back. Gilbert leapt off. Several days of this bear-ballet reoccurred until the two cats flanked Teddy’s sides. 

Ande, the largest and dominant cat, got a sniff of the cat-Teddy bonding and bounded onto the guest bed to challenge his brothers. They blinked sleep-heavy eyes and curled tighter by Teddy. Ande pranced around his brothers. Then they didn’t budge, he plopped beside them.

I may only have shed a bit of my mothering tendency with Charlie. At least I let the three tabby brothers work out their relationships between each other and Teddy. The tattered bear rarely rests alone. One, two, or all three cats nap alongside the bear. Their tired eyes blinking shut resembled Teddy’s black felt eyes—so worn they appear to be closing.

 

Gilbert, Teddy, and Rills