Essay #4

I have three cats and they are all like children to me. Each is as unique as the next and they all have stories. Splat showed up the May before September 11th. We call him Splat because he used to have a habit of hitting a wall at full speed. Bit was a street kitty I picked up from a friend who planned to feed him to a Rottweiler. I call him Bit because if you've known him for any length of time you probably have been bit. Jedi was rescued from a prison yard where his mother was raised by a prisoner. I promised my young bride a pet and Jedi was the inevitable result. I didn't name him, my wife did, but we are both avid Star Wars fans so it worked out. Since I brought them to Maine Splat and Bit have been outdoor kitties. The dirt and dust, the fleas and mud have resulted in many baths for the boys. The simplicity of the last statement only describes a shadow of the challenge involved in the actual process. There is a look a cat gets when a bath is impending that seems as if it should be beyond their expressional repertoire. It is the look I might imagine a man going to the gallows would have. They begin looking around for escape and hiding under the heavy furniture. As you carry them down the hallway a harmonica plays softly in the distance and you can almost hear the other cats shouting "Dead man walking the Green Mile!" The bathroom door shutting them in is the final straw. They bolt around the bathroom franticly looking for any avenue of escape, but there isn't one now. It's time for the inevitable, little one.
I always prefer bathing Splat first. He was my first-born and as such is my favorite (don't tell the others). He is a tuxedo cat, with a black body, white paws, and a white nose. A struggle ensues the closing of the door and I am forced to catch him in a towel to get him in the tub. Once I have him in the tub just the turning on of the water is enough to send him into hysterics. He doesn't weigh eight pounds but I have trouble holding him down. I have to use both hands until he calms down a little. I carefully release one hand and pour a small amount of shampoo on his back. His one soggy paw creeps toward the edge of the tub in a clandestine attempt to gain traction for an escape. I gently push it back and begin to massage the soap into his coat trying to talk soothingly to him. He begins to caterwaul as if I am killing him. "Roooooowwwwwwwwww" with his head turned up as if he is a lone wolf in the cold woods begging the moon for companionship. He bays and howls louder and louder and the other cats begin running around the house in horror. Eventually I get him rinsed off pouring cup after cup of water onto his coat and he looks up at me, hurt and with offended dignity. I wrap him in a towel and he is compliant with a face that stares into mine with a "Why?" expression as if I have just brutalized him. His wet paws find the bathroom carpet and he stands there for a moment while I towel him gently. Then I open the door and he runs out into the hallway where the other two cats are waiting for him and the three bathe eachother trying to help him get dry. All the while they take turns looking up at me with accusational eyes that seem to say "you monster."
Bit is next in the tub. He is a white Kitty with twin grey tornadoes running across his back and little grey patch on his nose. I have to be more careful with him because he is more dangerous than the others. He has been very aggressive since I brought him home and this situation should only serve to exacerbate his natural tendencies. I have to wrap him in a towel first and hold him tightly. Bit goes into the tub and he is calm and relaxed. I turn on the water and he lazily licks a paw as if to say "Get on with it." The whole thing goes off without a hitch. Imagine punching Mike Tyson in the face and him crying like a girl, that is the level of surprise. I wash him and rinse him, then pull the plug on the water and he jumps out onto the carpet, waiting for me to dry him off. Once his fur is only a little damp I open the door so he can join the others but they aren't waiting for him. He sits on the bathroom floor and grooms himself deliberately. I tap his bottom to shoo him into the hall and he sinks his teeth full into my hand. Now I get it, he knew what was coming. Instead of demeaning himself with a struggle he couldn't win he suffered through the process and then revenged himself when I wasn't expecting it. Sneaky little git.
Jedi is the final constestant. He is a greay tabby with black stripes. One could not ask for a more mellow kitten although he is the largest. He is so trusting that if you drop him on his back, he will not right himself like other cats and land on his feet, he just plops onto his back. I put him in the tub and all hell breaks loose. He climbs me like a scratching post fully embedding his claws into my arms and shoulders and wailing like a fire engine. He deftly leaps into to the sink and springboards onto the toilet tank several feet away. I reach for him in seeming slow motion as he bounces off my head and rushes for the door. I corner him and finally get him into the tub again, filling it quickly and holding on for dear life. I manage to get half of him washed before I have three bites on my hand and many slashes and punctures. The other half I buy with a few upper arm scars and then finally let him go. He slides and slips over the side of the tub flopping onto the floor like a drowned rat. He won't let me come near him with a towel so I have to chase him around the house to dry him. Finally I give up and the other boys take care of him. I say a small prayer of thanks that this is now over.
The days battle is won. I have three clean kitties and only minor injuries. Bit and Splat are outdoor kitties so I open the front door to let them out. They run through my legs before sniffing their way onto the porch. Bit immediately begins to roll in the dirt at the bottom of the steps and Splat hides in their little igloo. Bit locks eyes with me. He is covering his nice clean coat with dirt to shoot me the bird without fingers. Jedi is sitting on the back of the couch and staring daggers. He claws the couch and meows loudly. Luckily I don't have to do this again for a long time. It was like a long, long trip or dental work, something you dread but resign yourself to. You remind yourself it is a labor of love and then put on some band-aids and peroxide. A pet owner has responsibilities, you remind yourself. This is what you signed on for. Still the memory gets a shudder. The wife is relaxing with the baby on the floor and looks up. "How did it go?" I laugh and she inhales sharply as I show her my arms.