you don't expect the declawing. it's not that she lacks the capacity—you shudder at your earliest memories of her—so much as the cruelty of any kind without you provoking it by being too human. before you were a cat, you were in pain so frequently she would joke that you must've wanted her to hurt you. eventually you learned that acting like a cat earned you a reprieve, and that thinking like a cat ensured you didn't forget to act like one. you've gotten so good at it that you don't know when she last hurt you. its hard to tell if that reflects the length of time passed or a change in your ability to track time, but crux is that it's left you confused at the declawing.
you finally understand when she forces a pill down your throat. the process is perfunctory and gentle, and she coos softly the whole while. you had excused the anesthesia as a means of keeping you docile, but in hindsight, those injections had been the most painful part of the experience. watching her cut into you had been unpleasant, but she hadn't taunted you with it like you expected. just like the pill, the quick little cuts were, on reflection, much more like a veterinarian with a cat than a kidnapper with her victim.
your reward for taking your pill is a treat and soft scratches in her lap, and you quickly decide you've thought enough uncatlike thoughts for the day.
