Nobody’s home tonight. I just got in a little while ago–spent some time at Golden Gardens, reviewed my health insurance stuff over a coffee at Chocolotti (mmm…chocolotti) and got my first discounted prescription (for which I saved $100–Health Insurance RULES!). Needless to say, the cat has been cooped up all day, all by her lonesome.
And that means she’s gone crazy. I’m still adjusting to feline behavior, even after six (seven?) months of living here. It seems there’s something new to learn every week. This particular week has been about How to Keep a Cat From Ruining a New Rug. Cyndi is going through a pretty big overhaul in the living roo–buying new furniture and accessories piece by piece. It’s been fun to watch the transformation.
It’s also been fun to watch the destruction. I knew cats were fond of clawing things, but I never knew any cat could claw that much. She’s done a pretty good job of shredding the rug (and the couch, and the chair, etc, etc). So Cyndi’s been setting up an anti-kitty fort of sorts. There was a bottle of anti-cat spray that might as well have been canned air. There’s been foil on the couch, then this double stick tape/fly paper stuff that manages to catch me more than the cat. Then there was the sheet-over-the-rug trick, which looked more like we were setting up for a slumber party than protecting the rug from Petey’s Mighty Claws. Last weeked Cyndi broke out some Jean Nate powder, which is rumored to turn cats off to the notion of clawing at stuff. Really all it does is makes me sneeze.
So a couple days ago, Cyndi came home with the Last Resort–a set of kitty claw covers–tiny plastic sleeves that fit over the cat’s nails. (You have to glue them on.) It took three of us to wrestle the poor thing, hold her down and perform the Kitty Pedicure. She cried, of course, but by then Cyndi had no sympathy. I had to back off after the second nail cover went on. I couldn’t take part in this sort of kitty torture (other types of kitty torture–tying tube socks around her waist, for example–are still fair game), nor could I bare to be the bad guy. But even without my help, on went the nail covers and away went the sharp little spikes Petey was once so proud of. She looks as though she has bionic feet. When she walks across the hardwood kitchen floor it sounds like she’s wearing taps.
Now she runs around the house, still unable to stablize herself around sharp turns (and, since this is a pretty narrow townhouse, there are lots of sharp turns). And there she goes, skidding around the corner, headed up the stairs again. Full speed. No front breaks. Rear end stable. Front end out of control.
The rug, it seems, has been saved. At least until she figures out how to get those damn things off.