Barb's Burblings

You just can't reason with a cat

I was obviously feeling masochistic last night, as I finally broke down and took Colin to get his claws trimmed (I've resigned myself to the fact that I won't be able to do it myself). He knew something was up when I closed the doors to my bedroom, trapping him in the living room area. But he surprisingly didn't put up much of a fight when I put him into the carrier (unlike the time he peed on me during the process).

So we get to PetsMart and the guy goes into the back to put away a dog he had just finished grooming. "Wow," I thought to myself, "does the back really smell that bad? Because it smelled fine in here until he walked through that door." It was then that I discovered that Colin had thoughtfully pooped in his carrier. This was new. I felt really bad for the grooming guy, but he was like, "It's easier to deal with than urine." Oh, the foreshadowing.

Colin's nails are trimmed and I pick out some food for him, and we head home. "No pooping!" I tell him as we make our way back. Soon enough we arrive at home. I open the carrier and he bolts for under my bed. A few minutes later he emerges, and I notice that he is, in fact, wet in certain areas. It took only a moment for me to ascertain that he had, in fact, peed in the carrier. So I grabbed him and held him in the shower for a few minutes, which, trust me, not a good time.

And then I spent a pleasant evening scrubbing out the carrier and occasionally sniffing Colin to see if he smelled, which cause him to look at me strangely. I wish I could reason with him; you know, "Hey, Colin, if you'd just let me trim your claws here, we wouldn't have to deal with this!" Seriously, I am dreading what he's going to be like when I move.

Current song in my head:
"One Step Out of Time" by Michael Ball