Catching Wendy is difficult. She will eventually flop over in surrender, with a look on her face that suggests that we are finally, finally, going to do all the terrible things she's been imagining since she arrived, and that her starring role in a pot of Chat Bourguignon is imminent. She curls up in a defenseless ball in my husband's arms and I have to poke around to locate her paws. As I clip her nails, she is totally submissive, probably because she's busy saying Last Rites for herself.
Possum fights having his claws trimmed. He's too big and awkward for my husband to hold, so he tries to restrain him on the bathroom sink or on the floor, but Possum puts up a continuous, nonviolent struggle wherever he is. As I gently hold one paw and try to find his impressively long talons, he pushes my clipper away with his other paw. Getting him to settle down for his manicure takes a long time.
On the other hand, he adores being groomed. He will leap onto the bed, purring deeply, when the brush and combs come out. He likes to rub his face hard against the brush as I comb the rest of him. This would go on for hours if it were up to him.
I suppose he's naturally vain, being so handsome. Or perhaps it has a wee bit to do with the way I keep comparing him favorably to gorgeous movie stars. Rufus Sewell is my latest victim: See the striking resemblance? Possum is the guy on the left. Same green eyes. Same roguish, smoldering intelligence, but Possum looks much more at home in whiskers.
Here is Possum again — paws crossed politely, as always — after his grooming and manicure, showing off his aristocratic profile: