I have a tiny cat named Pounce. She is so wee that she can sleep in my hands. Often, she is mistaken for a kitten, even though she just passed the eight-year mark. But if her small stature leads you to think she’d be easy to subdue for a claw clipping, then woe betide you and your lacerated corneas.
I have two cats. Lola, with her chubby body and truncated legs, is never too hard to overpower. I put her on the counter, tuck her firmly into the side of my hip and – snip, snip, snip – she is ready for the prom.
Pounce will never be ready for the prom. Or, she could be, but it would be the same way that Carrie was ready for the prom. Pounce is high strung and nervous. She spits at people when they approach, which makes them dislike her and keep a safe distance away. This suits her agenda, but it means that no one will help me clip her anymore. I am left alone to try and subdue her furious, flailing limbs and their razor-sharp claws.
Sleeping Pounce, looking innocent.
To be honest, I don’t clip Pounce any longer. I stopped about five years ago. It was too much. If I wanted to see blood gush from my body, I’d just as soon join the Crips. I remember the last time that I held the kitty clippers to her paws. I had been intent on clipping her dew claw (the claw that is further up the side of the paw). I was trying to hold her down, pop the claw out of its sheath, keep my fingers away from her snapping jaws, and arrange myself so that I would have enough light to see and thereby avoid clipping into the live quick at the centre of her claw.
Absorbed in my task, I did not see her back paw – springloaded with a hateful, demonic energy – until it was too late. It caught me in the upper lip. Then, using the claw embedded deep into my face as leverage, she pulled herself into an upright position and sprang down the basement stairs, with part of my lip still attached.
Everything Has Become Her Scratch Post
But I need to master this trimming skill for a number of reasons. First of all, animal experts contend that not clipping your kitty’s claws makes you a bad cat owner. Secondly, unclipped cat claws take a toll on the fabric of your furniture. And lastly, Pounce likes to knead, with claws fully extended on my tender bits, so I end up bleeding anyway. Everything has become her cat scratch post, including me.
I already know the basics of cat claw clipping. What I am looking for is instruction on trimming the claws of a fully frenzied feline. I want to see hissing, and howling and paramedics on standby. I want to see the kind of claw clipping video that Quentin Tarantino would direct.
My results? First of all, there are a lot of videos about cat claw trimming.
But the people in the videos surprise me. Some are veterinarians or vet technicians, standing in a clinic room, others are Regular Joe’s, set up in their den or kitchen. They all speak in a voice that does not quaver. They stand there with their exposed arms and vulnerable eyes. Where is the protective eye wear, the Jason mask, the falconry gloves and the catcher’s vest?
I’ve Seen Crankier Potatoes
It all becomes clear soon enough. The cats they are clipping appear to be sedated, or perhaps very old. One video title lures the viewer in with a promise of dealing with a “cranky cat.” Not so much, lady. I’ve seen crankier potatoes.
I look for videos that promise a safe clipping experience. But when I watch them, it becomes evident that they are talking about how to ensure a safe experience for the cat. The cat!?
I do pick up useful bits from almost every video. For example, a couple of instructors recommend that silver nitrate be on hand to immediately staunch any blood should you accidentally cut into the cat’s live quick, which is full of blood and nerves. No mention anywhere about having Dettol on hand for your own wounds should you accidently cut into the quick.
Two videos make the point that a certain pair of clippers – the Millers Forge – are superior because they allow you better visibility. The kind that I have, the guillotine clippers, are less popular. Human clippers – almost every video maintains – should never be used because they smash the claw, not cut it.
Little Kitty Burrito
Then finally, I find it – a cat clipping video with the word “angry” in the title. And you know they mean it because they also use an exclamation mark. The video features an older man in his living room. He exudes confidence and mastery. When he rolls the surprised cat into a blanket to keep her swaddled, you have never seen anything like it. I watch it three times, I find it that surreal. Is this little kitty burrito the angry cat that we were warned about? Good God, Pounce would gouge an eye for a lot less than that bit of trickery.
The cat’s indignity is complete when a towel is placed unceremoniously over her head. Now she is fully shrouded, like that poor woman hostage in the movie Fargo. Quickly, the man starts snipping. The cat, I fear, has stopped breathing. There is no movement. The man does not seem worried, although he does seem surprised by the cat’s passivity. He tries to heighten the tension by talking about the cat’s warrior past and how she is a “ferocious fighter” and has “clamped her jaws’ onto his hand many a time before during this very same exercise. I am growing worried about the apparently lifeless tube he is holding.
Then I hear it. It starts quietly, a few low ominous growls. Then they get louder. The cat is alive! And it is mad as hell. The shock of being rolled up like a blunt has worn off. But by the time she pokes her annoyed face through the towel, the man has already finished the back paws. The cat frees its front paw and extends it as though to swat the man. Then she appears to think better of it and lets it lie meekly against him. He covers her again with the towel. He fishes into the tube of cat for another paw and finishes the job. I am impressed with his authority, his precise movements. He never loses his cool, although he did seem annoyed by the clueless camera man. All in all, a job well done. Bravo, sir.
The swaddling towel is clearly the key to claw trimming success. I spend the morning trying to roll Pounce into a cheap terry cloth number. At one point, I have all her limbs swaddled, but by the time, I get the clippers poised, she has slipped through the bottom of the tube. I try again. And again, she slides through the bottom. She runs down the basement stairs and hides in her favourite spot in the ceiling. I feel a mood coming on. I pour myself a glass of wine. I will report back at a later time, perhaps.
My Instructional Life 