Back Away from the Clippers

Those of you who know me may or may not know that I have a cat. Her name is Figaro. Here is her brief history:

In my house growing up, the only good cat was a dead cat, and thus I was never allowed to have one. My junior year of college I decided that I had waited long enough to have a cat and so Drew and I spent the better part of a Sunday morning pouring through the classifieds searching for free kittens. We found one listing at a farm about 15 minutes from school and that afternoon we got Figaro. She spent 2 years in college with us, moved back home to my parents with me after college (when it was then decided that maybe cats weren't so bad after all), lived through the army years and army moves with us, lived with us in countless apartments and several homes, welcomed home 2 new babies into our family, and is now peacefully living out her golden years in the window seat in our attic.

A beautiful Maine Coon longhair in her prime, Figaro is now plagued by diabetes (probably precipitated by all the low fat frozen yogurt we would sneak home to her from the college cafeteria) and she is for lack of a better word, mangy. I usually take her to get shaved 3 -4 times a year, but the cheapest place I have found here in town to do it is $75. I'm bothered by the fact that I spend more money on my cat's hair than I do on my own. So, in an attempt to save a few bucks, I tried shaving her myself this morning with Drew's hair clippers (don't tell him.) It did not go well. And Figaro was not the problem. She did not bite or claw or even hiss at me. She actually purred. I, however, should know my own limits when it comes to shaving a cat.

If you happen to stop by and catch a glimpse of my beloved Figaro, please don't laugh too hard. I'll make her an appointment with the real groomers soon, I promise.