I could see why everyone avoids her. Obvious white specs cover her black coat so well, it's difficult to tell where the excessive shedding stops and the fabric begins. A waft of white follows her around like the shade of a large oak. The trail flickers in the light, disappearing as the din of the day settles. Like the sun on a cloudy day, however, I KNOW it's there. Scattered throw rugs carry the sheen of dead skin.
The click clack of her long nails across the floor awakens everyone in the wee hours of the morning. Helen's up again, we note, headed to the kitchen to get a snack. We leave delectables out for her so the cupboards don't slam, bringing us fully out of our REM sleep. No one dares try to cut those cuticles, not even to trim the sharpness. They come to a point; disgusting, discolored, and frayed at the tips. Clipping those hooks would only lead to a lot of wailing so we stare at everything BUT those dreadful claws.
My visit is short and sweet, a long weekend of attention to these challenges that fend off the best of us. I tackle the horrible flakes first. No reasonable solution came to mind after a brushing session that left me with carpel tunnel syndrome and a snowflake storm lying on the floor below us. I turned to Google. "What causes dandruff and how can I get rid of it?" A poor diet is one of the major underlying causes. This could take time, weeks in fact, to remedy Helen's dandruff problem (we call her Dusty behind her back.) I want to know what I can do about it RIGHT NOW.
Lotion was one suggestion. First, I brought Helen out to the deck. I blew and scattered as much dandruff as possible off her shoulders, back, neck, and legs. I squirted my organic lotion out of the tube and rubbed it between my palms. I ran it across the top layer of fur and massaged it in. Now, Helen has globs of fur, sticking out every which way, like Rod Stewart, without the dashing good looks. She glares at me a bit than stalks off in a huff. Later, I work on her again, massaging, digging the product further into her coat. I pray it absorbs some. As she pops off my lap, I see her stretching. And from across the room, the independent masses of hair still clump badly. The owners are going to wonder what the hell I did to Helen, as she stumbles around, a Stoner with dreadlocks!
Corn starch and baby powder absorb, right? I sprinkle the mostly black body with the latter. Immediately, I regret the move. Helen races off, a pockmarked grey streak splaying the hall carpet. Crap. Let it be for now. Maybe, miraculously, she'll turn into her Playpen self in a few hours, or overnight.
I hear her clatter down the hall and into the kitchen during the wee hours. The clock glares 2:00. Turn on the switch to the lightest shade of grey Helen, munching on her dried fish snacks. Her nails dig into my thighs as I pull her onto my lap. All of the chairs, couches, ottomans are covered with a mix-n-match towel collection, due to Helen's daily dusting. I take my time and fluff at her blackgreyness. It seems to be blending well enough. At least the owners won't wonder who the hell this cat is and what happened to their precious Helen. The more I work at it, the less I see of the Stranger. Helen appears gradually, getting more pissed by the minute, however, as she's not handled much, for obvious reasons.
A fleeting thought crosses my mind....maybe Helen generates this mess to get more attention, more affection, more love, and loathing (bad attention is just as good, eh?)
Onto the nails!!!