“Cats don’t like having their teeth brushed”. This is the biggest understatement since Noah and his family said “It’s raining out”. Last week, my sister wanted me to grab our cat, Jenny, so she could brush her teeth. She even offered to do half the job for me by fetching the cat. Jenny caught wind of the plan and hid in her cube (sort of like a pup tent for cats), but my sister picked her up anyway, cube and all. Then it was my job to extract Jen from her flimsy hidy-hole. Sans jaws of life, this task is pretty much impossible. I didn’t get the whole cat, just a couple of viscious, stabbing limbs. One foot landed deep in my stomach and left a neat red mark right where a belly button ring would go. So my cat almost pierced my belly button and she didn’t even buy me a ring to go in it! Sigh, when I’m rich and famous, I can just hire someone to brush my cat’s teeth, right? Riiight.
My whole point is, the next time my sister writes “And Jen is just a big, lovey sweetheart” in response to any of my posts, take it with a grain of salt.