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Attack cat

Ruminations

July 12, 2011
By Robyn Near, Correspondent
You’ve all seen those cute signs that say “Attack Cat!” on them, haven’t you? I have my very own attack cat. I hadn’t realized that until I took him to be groomed. My apologies to the groomer.

I have four cats, two of which are fairly long haired. Not wanting my summertime guests to see my scruffy looking cats, I took the two long hairs to a groomer to be brushed out and mats removed. Now Sadie, my senior citizen at 8 years old, is usually quite content to be brushed; we do it quite often out on the deck and she just lies there and lets us detangle her. Pippin, our one year old kitten, which we’ve only had for about five months, has never been groomed to my knowledge. Any time we’ve tried to brush him, he thinks it’s a game and wiggles and squirms and tries to catch our hands with his claws and then tries to bite the brush.

Let me start at the beginning. I loaded both cats and carriers into the car for the trip to a grooming place in a not-to-be-mentioned city about 30 miles from here. I’m trying to protect the groomers by withholding their name and location. Sadie is a seasoned traveler and when let out of her carrier, curls up on the console beside me and sits there for the duration of the trip. Pippin’s only experience with a car is his two trips to the vet in Westfield. Pippin cries the entire trip. So with the sounds of “meow, meooow, meoooow” in my ears we took off on our adventure. To Pippin’s credit, he has a range of about seven miles for his crying; then he slacks off to an occasional whimper.

Upon reaching the groomers, I informed her that Sadie would be a sweetheart and that Pippin would likely try to bite her so an Elizabethan collar would be advisable. And I left them.

Two hours later a slightly frantic voice called me on my cell phone to inform me that my “little darlings” were done.

When I got there, the groomer who had worked on the cats was not there. In retrospect, I suspect she may have quit. I asked the other employee how they’d done. “They were awful,” she spat at me, to which I chuckled to myself and asked what had happened.

It seems Sadie did not like the environment or the groomer, not sure which. She hissed and spit and, when that didn’t work, she growled and batted at the groomer. Because she was afraid of being bitten, the groomer brushed out Sadie’s side and back, but not her tummy.

Pippin, sitting in his carrier all this time and listening to Sadie and the other animals, went ballistic when they removed him from his cage. He escaped the hold on him, raced around the room looking for escape and, according to the report, “bounced off the walls, all over the room.” The poor thing ran frantically back and forth across the room, jumping up on counters and window sills, under tables and over people.

He was attracting a crowd outside the window of the room. As more people gathered to watch and laugh at the spectacle, one of the groomers said, “Get those people out of here! He’s ruining our reputation!”

During the mayhem of trying to catch the cat, we discovered something else about Pippin. He hates dogs. There was a dog in the room, minding his own business, getting brushed out, and Pippin jumped onto his grooming table and attacked him. Well, he didn’t really attack him, just hissed and yowled and batted at him. But it sure scared the dog — and the groomers as well.

I’m not sure how they caught and restrained Pippin; they never said. But somehow he got most of the mats taken out of his coat. They didn’t say so, but I think my cats are not welcome there again. I quickly paid the bill and got my little darlings out of there.

I never heard a peep out of Pippin the whole way home. Poor Pip.
 
 

 

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