My cat bites.
I have had Jinny — black, domestic short hair — since she was a few weeks old. This July she turned twelve. Jinny has a problem with the carrier, a problem that did not get better with age. Overtime, Jinny developed an Over-My-Dead-Body attitude towards the idea of getting into a carrier. She hisses. She swats. She bites. She works herself up so much that she would pee and poop herself. Literally “scared sh@#less”.
To successfully get her in the carrier, my husband and I need to grab her while she’s not looking and swiftly shove her in. This may sound abrupt but speed is of the essence here. As soon as my husband picks her up, I need to magically appear with the carrier open, well-positioned, and critical path becomes putting her in and closing the metal door. It’s all very tactical.
This strategy is a one-shot deal. If we do not succeed, the process becomes much more agonizing. As soon as Jinny realizes what’s going on, she will squirm, bite, swat. This girl has no quit in her. It has happened in the past when she was already 90% in the carrier, turned around, spotted a gap between two walled-up human bodies and squeezed out. Then under the sofa she goes, I tip over the sofa, she runs under the bed, my husband lifts the mattress, she flees again, then finally we have her cornered behind the toilet in the bathroom. Hissing, growling, swatting. She will…
