Snip. I sat there as still as I could as if a deer in the headlights.
Snip. The nail cutter slowly vibrates its teeth along my one-week-old fingers.
Snip. I quickly look away, staring over Mommy’s head, trying to think about anything but the fact that I am losing the precious sharp talons that I was born with. How else am I going to protect myself!?
Snip. I am screaming on the inside. Help!
“Good girl, Dora, you did a good job. Now you won’t scratch your face anymore,” said Mommy as she puts down my hand. So what if I want to scratch my face? I’ve got an itch as I whimper silently. I clench my fist; no longer are the nails digging into my palms.
Did she take the entire nail off? I don’t feel it, yikes!
“Your mittens keep on falling off; let’s use this instead,” said Mommy as she puts a sock over my hand. A sock!? How unladylike! I wave it in the air, bite it – oh no, this is a child-proof sock-mitten.
I sit there defeated, powerless over the dress code.
At least my other hand is not mutilated.
“Now, let’s cut the nails on your left hand,” Mommy said. Can she read minds too? Oh Noooo!!