A Matter of Perspective

We have two cats; I won’t say they’re "ours" but we adopted them when my daughter and her husband moved to Scotland. It’s been a wonderful experience, and Bob absolutely adores them, dotes on them, obsesses on their health and well-being. I mean he really obsesses. Apparently that’s not uncommon with people who have dementia. Animals are such delightfully non-judgemental creatures after all. They could care less if he forgets a word as long as he pets them and doesn't forget their food – which I am ever present to remind him about.

Ravi, the orange tabby, likes to battle the bed covers when they’re not nicely made up and in the last couple of days he got me as he attacked and I could tell that it was time for a nail clipping.

This morning I hoisted him into my lap and set to work; he’s fairly good but he doesn’t like it and today he decided to attack my hand and the clippers. He’s growling and snapping; I clip and then “youch!”

Bob: “Oh poor Ravi, it’s all right. You’ll be fine. It’s almost over.”
Me: “Bob, he’s just fine! I’m dripping blood.”
Bob: “Oh good, he sounded like you were hurting him.”