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FELINE FRIDAY: Bathroom Bedlam

September 26, 2009

The observant among you will probably have already spotted that today is actually Saturday, not Friday.  It’s ok, I’m not losing my mind, I am very well aware that this Feline Friday post is a day late.  There is a very good reason for this.  I wasn’t going to do a Feline Friday post this week at all, so really this is a bonus for which you should be very grateful!  I have fallen way behind in my mission to post an anecdotal piece involving my kitty at the end of every week – so from now on this will be an intermittent series which will pop up every now and then to delight and amuse you, ok?  Good.  (In all honesty, Feline Friday is far from being the only thing I am failing miserably at right now, so at least I am consistent, if nothing else).  If it hadn’t been for the completely bizarre events of today I wouldn’t have bothered with this post.  But this afternoon’s adventures were too hilarious – and surreal – not to share.  It all started innocently enough…

I was napping in my bedroom while the Chipmunk was exploring the Playhouse Disney website on the computer.  The kitty was – apparently – fast asleep at the top of the stairs.  I took the Chipmunk to the bathroom, and when I came out the kitty was making a beeline straight for the bedroom.  So far, so normal.  I picked the kitty up, gently scolded him and gave him a cuddle.  It was at this point that I noticed a peculiar odour.  On further investigation, I determined that it appeared to be emanating from clumps of a ‘brown substance’ on kitty’s left rear paw.  And leg.  And back.  Fox poop – fantastic.  Much as I wanted to at this point, I did not drop the kitty from a great height and rush to the bathroom to vomit!  Instead, I gingerly deposited him onto the landing – and he bypassed me and headed straight for the bedroom, purring like a tractor. Luckily, I was able to overtake him and close the bedroom door without actually having to touch him again.

Now I was faced with a decision.  I could either:

1).  Shoo him downstairs and out of the house, refusing him entry until he had cleaned himself up satisfactorily

2).  Pretend the situation didn’t exist and resume nappage

3).  Give kitty a bath.

Before telling you what happened next, let me explain just why option 3 is such a majorly big deal.  Kitty is 15 years old.  Kitty has been living with us for all but his first 6 weeks of those 15 years.  Kitty has never, ever, had a bath.  Ever.  Kitty freaks out if a spot of rain lands on his head while he’s in the garden.  Kitty would not take kindly to having a bath.  I decided the only thing I could do in the situation we found ourselves in, was to give kitty a bath.  Please believe me when I say that I was not attempting to traumatise my kitty.  Nor was I trying to give him a heart attack.  But he really was covered in the stuff, and I decided that being ripped to pieces by kitty’s claws was preferable to having fox poop traipsed all over the house.

Resigned to the fact that he was not going to gain access to my bedroom any time soon, and blissfully unaware of the impending doom, kitty had curled up and gone back to sleep on the landing.  This was good.  It gave me the opportunity to run a few inches of warm water into the tub and grab an old towel from the airing cupboard without kitty – who has an uncanny knack of knowing when something is going on and disappearing – becoming suspicious.  When everything was ready, I picked up kitty – who eyed me sleepily – and took him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.  Alas, the game was now up.  Kitty knew something was happening, and that it probably didn’t involve catnip or chicken treats.

Without going into painful details, the next 10 minutes or so consisted mainly of yowling (kitty), scratching (kitty), bleeding (me), splashing (kitty) and utter terror (me, again).  After what seemed like an eternity, the paws were clean and kitty was wrapped in the towel – amazingly, he allowed me to carry him in it while drying him off!  When I put him down, I fully expected him to run for his life.  Instead, he settled down and began to lick the rest of the offending water from his coat as if nothing had happened.  In fact, you wouldn’t have believed that anything had happened – unless you had seen the bathroom.  Let’s just say it involved lots of anti-bacterial wipes, old towels and wet pawprints – everywhere.  I swear, if anything like this happens again, I’m going with option 2!


One Comment leave one →
  1. September 26, 2009 22:33

    I am laughing, but I swear it is only in solidarity 😀 My Darius has weak back legs and a tendency to collapse on his, uh, deposits, so we occasionally have to deal with “Poopiebutts.” Normally he doesn’t mind being cleaned (he’s much too creaky to get all the way back there), but his hind paws got clogged up recently and we made a trip to the bathroom sink to prevent (more) little clusters of ick being dropped all over the house. He’s remarkably non-violent, even though you would have thought the water was dissolving his body.

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