09.03.2008 - 4:56 p.m.

Yesterday we captured one of the cats, the big athletic one. His claws don�t wear down very well, so they�ll grow until he has to waddle across the room, trying not to catch himself in the carpet. He always eventually does, tearing around after his brother, and that�s usually when we catch him to do the deed, when we see him limping. He fights like his life depends on it; he doesn�t like to have his paws touched. We think he hurt one in the bad place where he lived before our friend brought him to us.

So we wrestle him into a harness, and my husband holds him by his scruff and his feet (he shreds towels, and also once the top of our bedspread, so this is the only method left) while I twist each toe, extending the claws as gently as I dare without giving him room to jerk at an inopportune moment. He yowls with each snip.

He escapes when I am not quite done, still needing to get the dewclaw on one side, but he has had enough. He contorts in several ways that should be physically impossible, my husband loses his grip, and the cat and the harness go shooting up the stairs in a blue-black blur.

I follow, and find him cowering between the comforter and the box spring of the guest bed. I pull him out gently�he doesn�t fight if he�s scared enough, and he finds the harness inherently frightening�and decide the dewclaw doesn�t really matter. I ease the harness off. He steps away a few feet, then curls up against the wall, watching me. He just wants to know that he won�t be forced. I can sympathize. I pet him, respectfully, until he purrs.

-stonebridge

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