Bathing the Cats
I don't see any obvious wounds, but I should probably call an ambulance as I expect that I must surely be bleeding somewhere.
I will ask them to bring extra blood.
This event came about when, in an effort to save money, I switched my animals to a cheaper flea treatment. A week later, several of the cats had nasty bumps over their hind-quarters, so I decided to take my life in my hands and bathe all six cats, in an effort to remove as much of the residue from their fur and skin as possible.
Let us take a moment to consider that Murphy is the only one really acquainted with bathing. I bathed him when I first got him as an adult cat, again more than a few times when he fell into someone's oil pan (That probably amounts to about ten baths. You have no idea what it takes to remove motor oil from dense fur!), again when he rolled in rotting melon rinds in the compost pile (Don't ask!), again when he dug himself out from under a trailer and probably many more times that have long been forgotten (By me, though probably not by Murphy), so I am a veteran survivor of B.T.C.S. (Bathe The Cat Syndrome...a close relative of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I think they are cousins.) The others were wiped down with a damp cloth when I took them in as kittens, but other than the occasional tushie wash, the concept of bathing is foreign to them.
I had bought a rather expensive mild, oatmeal, tearless shampoo which I placed by the kitchen sink along with a bucket of lukewarm water, a cup to scoop the water, a shower nozzle with a short hose attached to the tap in case I got desperate, several towels and a washcloth. In the bathroom I stacked a pile of towels and my hairdryer (Foolish girl!).
This is NOT something you want to do without help. You NEED that extra pair of hands. I, however, not only did it alone.....I did it six frigging times! Each time a potential suicide mission.
Comet was designated as my fist target as he is the stupidest and easiest to catch. He is also very used to getting his tushie washed, so it took him a while to figure out that he was getting wetter than usual at which time all Hell broke loose. This is one BIG, HEAVY cat! He kept clawing his way out of the crook of my arm like a drowning man desperately clawing his way to the surface, but fortunately I had my arm all the way around his chest with my hand clutching a large portion of his scruff.
Have you ever noticed how water repellent fur is? You soap and rinse and soap and rinse and still find areas that are dry near the skin. I had hoped to get rid of any dead skin that would be holding the flea treatment, but I learned that I would have to settle for just getting as much of it as I could out of the fur and hope for the best.
After bathing I wrapped Comet in a towel and took him into the tiny bathroom where I could sit on the floor and dry him without fear of his escaping. I soon learned that, except for Murphy who has an affinity for anything that sounds remotely like a vacuum cleaner, the hair dryer was not going to be an option. I settled for towelling as much moisture off as I could, then stood well back and opened the bathroom door. I have never seen Comet move so fast. He broke the sound barrier and almost knocked me backwards into the bathtub in his rush to vacate the room. I was soaked through to the skin, and the kitchen looked like there had been a tidal wave in there, but I still has five cats to go.
Each cat in turn was bathed this way. I must say that the very best one was dear little Oliver who cried his tiny heart out, but never once attempted to escape which enabled me to free up my left hand to aid in the shampooing and drying. Mind you, it looks like I probably won't be seeing him for a few days as he has taken up residence under my bed.
Very small and timid Sky, amazingly, had the loudest voice and could probably have put up a pretty good fight if she had a few more pounds on her, but fortunately for me, she is just too tiny. I felt very sorry for her. However, having the shortest, thinnest coat, her ordeal was over quickly.
I left Emily for last, which was a tactical move on my part. I often fondly call her "The Antichrist". Emily employed not only claws, but teeth, body mass and super-feline strength.. I could not dare restrain her in the crook of my arm as she would open a vein so fast it would make my head spin. Holding her by the scruff of her neck was impossible as every square inch of her skin is stretched taut over layers of fat. Several times she headed for my jugular. I settled, finally, for gripping her throat in my best "Move and I'll snap your neck like a twig" hold. I set my jaw with firm resolve and began.
Of all my cats, Emily's fur is the densest. It is like bunny fur...incredibly thick, soft, continuously shedding and amazingly waterproof. She took the longest time to bathe, not because she was constantly attempting to lunge out of my grasp, but because I just couldn't seem to get her wet! I ended up flooding the kitchen, turning myself into something resembling a prune, using gallons of water and shampoo only to discover that I had barely moistened the surface of her hair.
Let me remind you that Emily, for all of her ferocity does not Meow. She squeaks like a mouse when she talks, which is a bit ludicrous for a creature of her mass. When angry she makes a sound akin to a chicken trying to lay a watermelon. She began to screech as I carried her into the kitchen and continued screeching throughout the whole bathing and drying procedure. She continued screeching as she blasted out the bathroom door and for about 2 minutes after she had raced through every room, dropping little turds behind her.
Tonight I sleep with one eye open.
