Blogus Interruptus (Lynn Kerstan)

P.S. (Can that stand for pre-script, too?)

I’m preempting my previously scheduled blog topic to recount an altogether new experience I had today. From the checkout line at PetSmart, where one does not expect transforming events, I was witness to a cat being shaved.

It was fascinating to watch the process, rather like seeing a very small Marine at boot camp getting a buzz-cut. The procedure left just enough base-line fur to show the black-and-white pattern and keep the cat from looking grey-pink and naked. And I have a question.

Why would anyone have a cat’s fur removed? Not being critical here! The cat didn’t mind, even when the electric shaver got perilously near to private parts. Mellowest cat I ever saw. But it’s winter, and the nights get cold. Yes, maybe the owners have allergies. But it’s dander, not fur, that causes allergies.

On the other hand, shed fur is a freaking nuisance. Exhibit One: my vacuum cleaner bag, currently swollen like an overcooked sausage because it’s packed with cat fur. Exhibit Two: my clothes. Especially the fancy black attire I’ll be wearing for my one-among-many-others performance in the chorus singing Haydn’s Creation on this Saturday night. Oh, well.

For a time, I stood at the glass window to watch the shaving and figured this shorn cat was owned by a snooty La Jolla doyen making sure her pet never deposited a detectable cat-hair on her vintage Chanel suit or Armani Charity Ball Gown. But as I was leaving the store, I saw a Social-Security-aged couple wearing frayed sweat suits enter the glassed-off grooming room and claim their pet. So much for my diagnostic skills.

As the can-opener of an easily spooked feline, I can say that moments after a buzzing electric shaver was turned on in his vicinity, Lymond would have scampered halfway to Yuma. This cat goes into hiding when I pull out the noiseless, harmless curling iron. A good thing he didn’t wind up in the custody of someone who needed him virtually denuded.

Mind you, I’d love to have a denuded pet. Specifically, George Clooney.

Anyway, if you can enlighten me about the rationale for shaving cats, please do so in Comments.
And, how do your pets’ habits change in winter? Mine uses my bed as a temporary warm-up station. It never gets terribly cold here in San Diego, which makes us both over-react to a chilly night. Except that I don’t invade his territory.

He, of course, knows no boundaries. The wretch waits until I am asleep. Jumps up at pillow level to be sure of waking me before slipping under the goosedown covers. Purrs to be sure I let him stay. Then he curls up beside me and remains perfectly still, lulling me into compliance and sleep. All is well.

Then he leaves. I know that because he comes back later. Wakes me up. Replays the ritual. Several times on cold nights. Dratted cat.

Moving on. What I meant to talk about was tribes, and how we form them on the internet. But I seem to be entirely scattered tonight. Probably because I’m still a little shaky from a close call on the drive home a couple hours ago.

Fortunately, I noted an SUV in the lane next to me and a little ahead, going 50 in a 65-mile zone and not holding quite steady on the road. The driver, talking on a cell phone, was clearly distracted. I slowed a little, preparing to drop a safe length behind, just in time to be a whisker-length clear when he veered into my lane. And wobbled. And kept right on talking as he speeded up again, swerved around the car in front of him, and sailed ahead.

Close call. Mostly likely, he never noticed.

But it left me feeling out in the cold and shivering this evening, somewhat like a shorn, furless cat. So I’ll let go my plans for this post and dive under the covers. And pretty soon, a densely furred Abyssinian cat will probably join me there. Safe. Warm. Alive.

It’s all good.