The dining room isn’t my favorite place. I only go there if the Mom and Dad person work on my claws. I don’t know what I have done to deserve this, but it must be something really bad.

I try to convince them that it’s not necessary by lowering my head, looking dejected and slumping my whole body. I walk very, very slowly to the designated torture area. But the Mom person still makes me lay down, flips me over on my back and straddles my body with her legs.

She also holds down at least two of my legs, while the Dad person takes this loud, dusty whirring device and proceeds to grind down my claws on the other legs. The Mom person talks to me in a soothing voice, but that’s a big trick–while she’s talking to me like that, I’m shaking like a leaf.

The Mom person is stronger than she looks, for such a short person. She can, if required, completely immobilize my entire body! Did she go to school to learn that?

The only good thing about this is that I get my favorite dog treats from the Dad person. But if you ask me, an entire vat of those is not enough to convince me such torture is actually necessary.

Note to Self: Work on pathetic dog look–maybe a limp will help?!

Monday’s Post: How well do you flocculate?

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