Trauma

Last Wednesday, my mother, Little One and I took our cat to the groomer (yes, it takes a village). Coco is a half-Persian, half-Rugrat, long-haired little rascal, and every year she has to get the knots shaved out of her. Coco is notoriously unfriendly (and maybe a little racist), and loves alerting the neighbors every time we take her out of the comfort of her luxury dwelling.

For this particular shaving, it took three (THREE!) tranquilizer shots to sedate her, and she still hasn't forgiven us for the events that transpired. Not only does she now look ridiculous, but she refuses to pay any attention to us, has gotten mildly aggressive, and never wants to cuddle. Now, I'm all for her rebelling and acting out against us, but let's take a look back at some of the traumatizing events of my past and see where they've led me:

1. Six years old: Being hit on the shoulder by the wing of a disgusting bird while riding my bike.
2. 10 years old: Having a gecko run down my arm while tilting our mailbox over to retrieve the mail.
3. 25 years old: Having someone put their BARE foot (*shudder) on my exposed leg.

Ahh yes, proceed Coco. You have every right to be pissed and hold your shaving against us for the rest of your nine lives.