Feeling the pain … so you don’t have to

I truly love my little big man, he of the soft white and black hair, cow spots (my little Holstein) and liquid green eyes.

Of COURSE you love me ... I'm frickin' adorable!

Of COURSE you love me … I’m frickin’ adorable!

But some days … not so much.

I knew when Luke was first brought to me nearly 10 years ago that he had issues (not the least of which the fact that for the first two weeks we all thought he was a she). Over the first few weeks, more and more happened that made it evident to me that whoever the asshat was who dumped him in that parking lot, there was some sort of abuse in the picture, mostly of the psychological kind.

So yes, Luke is neurotic and sometimes psychotic (but always beautiful … it’s not fair).

He’s much better and more well-adjusted than he was when he first came to me.

He no longer cries all night.

The idea of jumping on top of something more than a foot high doesn’t terrify him anymore.

Scared to jump? I didn't take an elevator up here!

Scared to jump? I didn’t take an elevator up here!

He’s not afraid of carpet (there was a week that the living room carpet really freaked him out, and he spent that time using furniture as a freeway).

Bubbles don’t send him running into a hidey-hole to cringe any longer.

Still, there are some things that continue to set him off, especially when he’s feeling especially paranoid. Though it’s hilarious when it sends him into a Galloping Goofball sideways prance, when something scares him, I have to hope that he isn’t lying on top of me, especially while I’m wearing shorts.

Last week, I wasn’t so lucky.

Luke was lying quite peacefully on my legs on the bed as I worked on my laptop that evening when a bag of granola I had set on the tray table shifted and fell. The rattling sound apparently scared the bejeezus out of him, and he jumped back, then reached out to try to catch himself from falling off the bed … and managed to make me a blood donor.

One of the wounds on my leg the day after, and it still looked like I'd walked through a plate-glass door.

One of the wounds on my leg the day after, and it still looked like I’d walked through a plate-glass door or maybe tangled with a barbed-wire fence.

I can’t really be mad at him, but it still hurt (and still does several days later … and the itching … yeesh!).

I’ve tried to cut his claws, but he’s so strong (pretty much the proportional strength of an ant) and hideously cranky when he’s in a mood that I usually can’t do more than one at a time. The vet tried to do it the last time I took him in for a checkup and found that the cowering cat he usually dealt with turned into the Tasmanian Devil when confronted with clippers (there will definitely be sedation next time).

Tasmanian Devil (Looney Tunes)

Tasmanian Devil (Looney Tunes) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And I’ve yet to find a groomer here that will do it. I refuse to get him declawed for several reasons, so that’s out.

Maybe half a Prozac for him … and a suit of armor … and someone else to do the clipping … maybe a lobotomy for me afterward …

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