Bathing the resident cats

(Things are so busy right now I’m pulling out one of my “saved for a rainy day” stories.)

Some time ago I mentioned there was a story? Heh.

Many, many years ago, in the days of Tavi and Wake, I once spotted a flea on Tavi. One flea. I decided I wasn’t waiting around for more to show up. One of my earliest adoptees came home from the shelter FULL of fleas. Ick.

So I gathered supplies and one-by-one marched them into the bathroom. Each one endured the bathing in a manner completely matched to their personality! Jennie sat there, stoically, staring at me as if to say, “I can’t believe you’re doing this and I will get even.” Tavi meekly submitted but, every once-in-a-while, would gently reach out a paw to the edge of the tub as if to say, “I’m just going to leave now, ok?”

Then there was Wake. He jumped out a number of times only to be caught and put back in. I was holding his front paws in one hand and his back paws in the other, trying to get him to calm down. In his desperation to get out he bit the closest thing he could, my bicep. My flexed bicep. Try this: poke your relaxed bicep muscle. Now flex it and poke it again. Still doesn’t begin to give you an idea of the pain. And I couldn’t stop because he needed to be caught — again — and rinsed.  We had a little chat about how this would never happen again and managed to get through it.

I’ve never bathed an adult cat since. I swore that if I ever had to I was going to pay the vet to do it. Like anal gland expression; some things are worth every penny!