Bathing a Disgruntled Cat

June 21, 2002
      It was past time.
      Since I was laid of I have been so busy that the cats have been neglected.
      So has the dog been. Neglected.
      But watching them try to walk across the Berber carpet and hooking their long claws all over the place I felt sorry for them and vowed to do better.
      The dog was not white anywhere on her body.
      The orange cat looked bedraggled and smelled.
      Ranger always smells because Ranger does not bathe himself.
      He also does not know the difference between cat litter and the sides of the litter pan so he does not bury things well.
      Little Bit buries it for him. Only reason I let her back in the house.
      Little Bit hasn't been bathed in a dog's age, not since she clawed and bit the groomer early on.
      So, having "discovered" that PetCo has finally hired a groomer, at long last, I booked a bath and groom for the dog.
      The woman barely speaks English but we made sense of things.
      She doesn't do cats.
      According to PetCo, she eventually will do cats.
      Just not now.
      I wonder if she knows that.
      But, if I promised to hold them firmly, she would cut their nails.
      Today was the day.
      This requires that I stumble out of bed early, regardless of how late I was up.
      Dressed as I slept, in a long tee shirt and panties, barefoot, and determined, I began the cat roundup.
      Ranger and Little Bit, when I called "Kitty Kitty Kitty" KNEW what I was after.
      Ranger fled to my son's room and got under the bed.
      I have pulled him from the bed bottom before, using a broom and a stick, driving him within reach.
      He in turn hissed and spit, which is out of character.
      Today, I merely shut him in there.
      My son, the late owl, rolled over and refused to get up to help.
      I began the house hunt for the other brat.
      Little bit runs slung low to the ground, meowing all the way.
      She runs the length of the house three times as I drive her from room to room, out of her hiding places.
      I have to stop and grab my asthma inhaler.
      I finally corner her under the coffee table, which is under the dining room table (making room for the gym equipment) and on my belly, I get her.
      Grasping the brat firmly in a towel, I slither like a snake backward out from under the furniture.
      I put her in the boy's bathroom.
      I go for the cages.
      Her first.
      I open the bathroom door carefully and step in, and she goes easily enough into the cage, where she feels safe.
      One down.
      Next is the orange brat so I grab his cage and step into my son's room.
      Ranger is sitting on my son's bed, glaring at me with orange eyes, evidently having gotten petted, and I grab his butt and put him into his cage before he gets a chance to leap back under the bed.
      He yowls.
      My son rolls over enough to tell me, "See? I helped." He went back to sleep.
      Cats corralled, I take a shower (which destroys my hair) and pull on casual clothes (since they will be covered in cat hair).
      A little makeup (so I don't scare people) and I put the cats, which have toppled one of the cages over on its side, into the car.
      The dog is easy.
      She loves coming in.
      Loves seeing the leash.
      And runs herself into the van.
      I get to PetCo and we have a little bit of a problem finding a code for the dog.
      The groomer, who forgot that we had found one last time when I booked (at $28) had to find another one (at $31).
      The cat's nails clipping is now $8 instead of $5.
      Fine. I used to tip the groomer. Won't now! Consider it built it.
      She does the nails, which requires that I dump Ranger (big orange and fluffy if bedraggled) out of his cage and literally take Little Bit's apart to get her out.
      Ranger smells.
      I am too old to smell him.
      My son too sick to smell him.
      But I do, on close contact, get a whiff.
      The groomer will wash him when I bring him back when the dog is dry.
      Little Bit cannot be bathed by a groomer, as I said.
      So, having been told before "Put her in the sink under an oven shelf and use the sprayer", I decided that the hand-held showerhead in my son's bathroom would work and just leave her in her cage.
      I was merciless.
      I am covered in her hair.
      She will be clean!
      She has been drenched.
      She got out of the cage once (broke the door open) but only made it under the toilet.
      I grabbed a towel, grabbed her and shoved her back in.
      And hosed her really good, top and bottom.
      And when I was satisfied, I shut her in the now warm bathroom to drip dry in the cage.
      I will take a towel in and dry her off later.
      She had stopped fighting after a bit.
      She had given up, as much as an anti-social cat can give up.
      Ranger, still in his cage for the trip back to the groomer for a bath (no groom), yowled and beat on his cage.
      I told him to shut up.
      He did.
      I have an arm with blood blisters all down it, barely two weeks out from my date with Fabio.
      I am not happy.
      My son, ever helpful, wandered into his bathroom after asking if he could do so.
      Chaos has settled.
      Fleas beware.
      Advantage is now on the loose.
      That was the purpose for the bathing.
      I did not want flea bites on my legs.
      When I dry the brat, she will get dosed.
      Then I'll be all set.
      Until next month.
      Gasp!
      I reckoned without my son.
      He left the bathroom door open.
      The wet cat, determined, got out of her cage.
      One very wet cat is running free.
      I scream, he grabs clean towels!
      No, I say, use dirty ones! (I have enough laundry!)
      The cat heads for the screen door, behind the dining room table, under the coffee table, where I had caught her earlier.
      OK. I snake back under the coffee table, directing my son to the other side to prevent her bolting.
      He is helpless.
      I slither under and reach out to cover the cat with the towel and wrap her into a ball and begin slithering back out from under the coffee table.
      He cannot lift the table (heavy) but can direct me so I don't crack my head.
      I almost had him just grab my legs and drag me out.
      Cat is now dried off (I rubbed her down good) and back in the warm bathroom with the door shut.
      I chased my son back into his room.
      The excitement has Ranger beating on his cage, again.
      This will simply lead to him being bathed in the same way, with the addition of a few drops of shampoo.
      Ever seen a disgusted, bedraggled, sopping wet orange cat?
      He may never forgive me.