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