#23 - Bedtime
It was getting late and I was thinking about going to bed when my wife said, "That cat needs a flea bath. The poor thing is going nuts." She was right about one thing; the cat was, like most young cats, quite nuts.
Now I'm not in the habit of bathing cats nor doing anything much about cats, except when they find me sitting still. Then I pat them and rub their chins. I like cats, but they are so determinedly independent I rarely feel the need to pamper them. Anyhow, the decision was made to do something about this new young house cat’s torment despite the hour. For such a small cat, it should only take a minute I thought.
First thing, go out into the barn and find the flea stuff labeled “For Cats” in the box where we kept all the pet equipment. Barefoot, I rushed into the barn to get it and nearly stepped on a skunk who was busily chewing a hole in a bag of grain meant for the sheep. Up went the skunk’s rump with its striped tail aloft. An abbreviated version of my life flashed through my mind. I backpedaled furiously . . . only to fall over my son's bicycle. By some miracle, his alarm diminished by my ridiculous antics, Pew-Pew simply turned and waddled out the barn door into the dark. Whew! . . . Back to business.
Our supply of empty and fossilized flea treatments looked impressive but was mostly useless. At last I found one that allowed I could use it on a cat. It was not a spray, not a powder, but a shampoo, meaning to me that I would actually have to get the cat wet - not a very sensible thing to try in my experience, but what the hell.
I filled the set tub in the pantry with several inches of warm water, hoping the cat would like the temperature. Then, with a “Here kitty kitty,” I grabbed my suffering flea-ridden victim by the scruff of the neck and warily lowered him into the tub. Holy cow what a struggle! Eighteen glinting fish hooks coupled with adrenaline-laced panic are a most unwholesome combination to grapple with in the confines of a slippery set tub – let me tell you! Everything within reach ended up in the bath water as the poor cat lashed out in his desperate efforts to escape his therapy: dish towels, a tub of hand cleaner, a toothbrush, a dish of hairpins, a bar of soap and a back issue of National Geographic.
After several traumatic minutes of my thoroughly shampooing all but his eyes (which were huge by now!), young Mr. Kitty and I were ready to call it quits. My hands were bleeding. The fleas, I hoped, were all dead. The cat and I were now supposed to take a recess for five minutes while the soap worked its magic. (Whose idea was it to call it a “recess”?) It was the longest five minutes of our lives as we lasted this round – me clutching, the cat still clawing frantically. At last it was rinse time and the bath was finally over. Flea-shampooing a cat by hand is a job I don't ever care to repeat.
Bedraggled, dripping and exhausted, the cat was hoisted up to a level where my wife could mummify him in a dry towel and acquaint him with the friendlier side of humanity. The poor little guy had really gone through the wash, and after a prolonged rub-a-dub-dubbing, he looked it. What a sight! It was some time before he would walk right again. Each step he took, he had to shake his foot before taking the next step.
By the time I got the mess picked up, nearly an hour has gone by, and we still had the problem of what to do with a wet cat for the night, a cat who was in the habit of sleeping only on the best furniture in the house. We finally got him bivouacked in the dirty clothes basket in the bathroom where we hoped he might stay.
The lesson learned from all this? Don't ever bathe the cat on your way to bed; just let him out. I wished I had. As I fell asleep, I could feel a bedraggled and somewhat soggy but now happy cat purring down by my feet.