Spa, They Say

My prison guards obviously think I am stupid. About once a month I get really good at scratching. I scratch people, I scratch furniture, I scratch the carpet. I know when my nails reach a certain length that I am deadly and if someone tells me what to do, they are going to get it! Sure enough though, after the first blood is drawn, I hear those words, “it’s time for spa.”

They think I don’t know what spa is. Spa equals the other three letter word in cat and dog language that means, “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!” Being in a prison, there are not many places you can run and hide and sure enough, they always get me. The put me into a small portable cell and then I have to ride in that car and then we get to that place. It looks all nice from the outside, there are trees and green grass and birds singing and then you get inside. There the people act all nice too but then they take you in the room. And you hear dogs barking and cats yowling and you know that could be you. Sometimes they take your weight and just announce to everyone that you happen to be creeping closer to 10 pounds. Don’t they know my fur is at least 5 of that? Then they grab you, at this point I am a deer in the headlights. If I don’t move, maybe they won’t see me. Too late, one of them grabs my paw and starts working. Snip Snip Snip! But then the other is rubbing my cheeks and my neck and that kind of feels good. NO! This is bad, this is very bad. In just seconds, my nails are short and dull and useless.

“Spa,” they say. I am on to you. Just wait a month.

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