“I have a way with cats,” I said, as I brushed her thick fur.
Greta gave an even bigger smile and her shoulders relaxed. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of coffee.” She took a step away from me. It looked like she was leaving. Perfect!
“No, thanks, not for me.” I smiled at her as she turned and started to walk away. Lying to this poor woman was one thing, but then also taking coffee from her? I couldn’t do that.
“Trim the face. Don’t forget,” she said, over her shoulder.
I nodded. “Doing it right now.” I lowered the scissors towards the cat’s face as Greta left.
I was just about to put the scissors down and walk away when someone came up behind me. I turned and saw an elderly woman with a badge that readJudge, and she was looking closely at Countess Claw-dette.
“Hi,” I said.
“Are you the groomer?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Beautiful cat. I think she stands a real chance, this year—but you didn’t hear that from me.”
I smiled and raised my finger to my lips in silence.
She winked at me and then leaned in and whispered, “Trim above the eye.” And, with that, she quickly walked away.
God! The pressure! The pressure! The fucking trimming. For some reason, I now felt compelled to do it, since everyone seemed to be telling me to do it. I lowered the scissors on to the cat’s face and focused my attention on the hair above her eye. I was about to cut, when . . .
AAATISHHHOOOOO!
I sneezed. And froze. I realized instantly that something very,verybad had happened. I opened one eye slowly, terrified to see what I’d done. Then I opened the other eye, and there wasn’t even time for me to respond, because I heard a gasp next to me. Then I heard a smack, followed by a splash, and then I felt a hot, wet burst of liquid at my ankle. I looked down. A cup of coffee lay on the floor. I followed the familiar legs up to Greta’s face. She was standing there, eyes wide and hands over her mouth, staring at her cat.
I turned slowly, and finally looked at the cat. I didn’t need to be a professional to know I’d made a terrible mistake.
“Oh no, oh no,” I said, staring at the cat.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” Greta screamed, and people turned around. “You have mutilated my cat!” she yelled, pointing at the stripe of hair that was now missing from above one of the cat’s eyes.
“I . . . I . . . Sorry. It was a mistake. I . . .” I rambled loudly as a crowd started to gather.
Greta was fuming; she was turning a bright shade of tomato. “I can’t believe you let this woman groom your cat last year,” she said, and I swung around to see who she was talking to. As I did, I came face to face with a man and woman wearing very familiar-looking T-shirts.May the fluff be with you.This was so bad. The couple stared at me.
“I’ve never seen this woman in my life,” the man said, after looking at me for a while.
Another gasp. Even bigger than before. And then a finger was pointed in my direction. A big, shaking finger. God, this felt so familiar. Why did I inevitably cause a scene everywhere I went? “You’re not a groomer. Who are you?” Greta asked, with a trembling voice.
“I . . . I . . . I can explain,” I stuttered. Why do people who are caught red-handed always claim they can “explain,” when clearly they can’t? And then I did it, once again—I turned and ran.
