They got me again! I returned from the grocery store and proceeded to first clean the fridge before putting the food away. After 30 minutes, I came to realize that the boys were missing. Fridge = Food = Cats Stalking. Where were they?
I beckoned loudly, “Rascal and Jackson, come see mama”. No response.
One of their favorite past times is to take in the coolness of the concrete garage floor by rolling onto their backs and wiggling. Earlier, when I unloaded the groceries, I left the door to the garage open for my little monsters to enjoy.
I quickly strode towards the garage, thinking that perhaps they were stuck on top of the cabinets again.
I found them.
The dry cat food bag that I had just carried inside had been ripped open and they were happily feasting, oblivious to my presence.
I angrily shooed them back into the house.
That’s it I thought. John mentioned this morning that Jackson smelled and it’s been two weeks since the last bath. “Bath as their punishment”, I thought irrationally, knowing in my rational mind that they wouldn’t associate their crime with the punishment.
Usually I feel guilty bathing them, they hate it. But, they do tend to smell after a few weeks without a bath and it helps to eliminate any dander, thus relieving any allergic reaction that I might develop.
On a regular basis, these cats sit on the kitchen counter and bathroom vanity, watching water spew from the faucet, never tiring . But the second I lay a fluffy bath towel on the countertop and pull out the liquid blue colored cat soap, they take off running.
Rascal is always first. It prolongs the trauma if he goes last. Jackson is easy. He sits submissively while I spray, wash and rinse. Once released, he shakes himself like a dog then proceeds to sun himself on the 3-season porch. Not a big deal.
Before the water even begins to run, Rascal attaches himself to me, claws fully extended, paws flailing in an attempt to mount my shoulder and gain access to my back, his head lowered in the hopes that he has become invisible. He lets out a death meow. I try to calm him to no avail. I lower him into the sink. I try to work quickly. He lets out a second and then third sickening meow. He grabs for the faucet, the paper towels, last night’s half emptied wine bottle, the tomatoes ripening on the windowsill. He uses his rabbit like feet again and again to propel himself into the air away from the wetness. This prolongs the agony.
It gets so bad that John (who has consumed a few glasses of red wine) begs me to stop. He begins to cry, calling me emotionless and insensitive – blaming my childhood.
Finally it’s over. I wrap Rascal into a fluffy dry towel, hold him close and softly assure him that I am done. He won’t look at me. Once released, he bolts into hiding. I am unable to approach him for a few hours. He snubs my offer of cat treats.
Once he is fully dry and fluffy. I capture him, massage his head and softly beg for forgiveness. Soon we are again best friends.
Unconditional love. I am his world and he is mine.
My Devon Rex Kittens 