As I mentioned last week, I really hate being brushed. Of course, Brother Minou just looooooves it. He prances in circles when he first sees the Furminator comb and then he says, "It's not a toomuh." At which point I'm like, that's not even the right movie, you nimrod. He doesn't care. His feeble mind is bloated with anticipation for the grooming to come.
I, on the other hand, would rather wear gingham bloomers (something to look into — ed.) than have those evil rakes go through my fur. Personally, I think the whole ritual is barbaric, but Mom seems to think that having cat hair covering every surface is undesirable. (Yeah, I don't get her logic either.) So every now and then, I have to suffer through the humiliation of going to the cat salon. As you will see, I act like it is the biggest imposition in the world.
(PS) Mom thinks I look like Rudolph Valentino at 1:40.
(PPS) Those are mostly meows, not hisses.