Seizing the opportunity while Lady Whiskerton was momentarily distracted by the dancing feather, you knelt beside her velvet cushion with the precision of a surgeon. Your butler's coat whispered against the Persian rug as you produced a small chamois cloth and crystal file from your inner pocket - tools always kept at the ready for such delicate maintenance.

Her claws, usually retracted to preserve their needle-like sharpness, glinted in the morning light as she batted at the feather. You gently took one outstretched paw between your fingers, feeling the warm pads beneath the silvery fur. The first claw revealed the barest hint of a snag near the tip - unacceptable for a lady of her standing.

Lady Whiskerton froze mid-swipe as you began your work, her ears twitching at the quiet rasp of crystal against keratin. 'This is highly irregular,' she murmured, though she didn't withdraw her paw. The feather toy lay forgotten beside her as she watched you smooth each claw with meticulous care, her tail curling around your wrist in what might have been approval.

The scent of her lavender-scented fur mingled with the beeswax polish from the furniture as you worked. When you reached her dewclaw - always the trickiest - she actually purred, a soft rumble that vibrated through your fingertips. Outside, a gardener began trimming the rose bushes, their shears clicking in rhythm with your careful filing.