Cat Bathing is a Martial Art

In my opinion there is only one way to successfully bath a 25 pound family cat, folks. When it is legally dead. Or, when it is comatose by virtue of a few old pain pills you found in your medicine cabinet and quietly slipped into the "Nine Lives" offering. Yeah, sure you can try to wrap your cat in a makeshift body cast "mix" of ropes, leash and towels, but it won't work. Nope. You can even try the smooth but sinister "cuddle him off to the bathtub while whispering softly as you cram treats into his mouth" technique, but that won't work either. He knows. And he has probably known for days whats coming. As I sit here typing, I flashback to the scene in my home that terrible Spring day when the combination of Jack Daniels and my tax refund check elevated both my mood and my desire to finish such previously put off chores. It should have been a clue when I heard the lurking shark music from "Jaws" playing in the background as I prepared for my adventure. And even that little Sumo wrestler cat stance he took with me as I came for him didn't completely register until it was too late.

In retrospect, I suppose my staggering about shouting "Bath?...Bath?...Simmmbaaaa! kitty kitty kitty....Bath?" as I gathered towels and flea soap wasn't the smartest thing to do. But who knew? It was then I realized my cat wasn't from this planet. He had psychic abilities beyond my tiny human range of understanding. He probably knew weeks ago that this particular day was at hand and had prepared for it like a furry alien gymnast. It hadn't dawned on me earlier when I watched him viciously knead the carpeting with destructive vigor or later rip fiercely against the defenseless scratching post that he was actually in training for this event. If you think about it, that little "Pffft....Pffft....Pffft..." sound a cats claws make when rapidly extending for attack is just as quiet and lethal as a gun with a silencer. Gods gift to our feline friends I guess. Now, I wasn't completely unprepared mind you. I gave this some thought. I put a towel down in the bathtub so he would have some traction on the slippery surface. I had also donned the elbow length rubber gloves that women use for only God knows what. But despite the preparations, when the moment of truth came and I went to capture my prey, I noticed he had strategically positioned himself in the one room area that had all the "tried and true" cat escape routes available. Optimal battle planning. What was worse was, he was actually poised there and grinning at me. With each step I took toward him he gracefully bolted in the opposite direction stopping at some prearranged "cat failsafe point" that offered him (at least) the same number of new escape routes. There he would wait. Watching me. Mocking me. It was maddening. Every move he made was mathematically correct from the "fight or flight" point of view. It's at about this point our cute little family pet's name changed. In my case it changed from "Simba" to "Fucker" . Like a self-replicating virus growing geometrically, his paths and escape routes never dead-ended. He expertly left me no place to corner him for the ultimate "cat grab'. (This is usually where the Jack Daniels "moment of pause" gulp occurs.) The last actual sighting I had was his big furry butt heading down the basement stairs followed by that "budda...budda...budda...budda" sound his paws made hitting each carpeted step on the way down and echoing off into the distance. Aha! now I had him.

I quickly closed the upper door trapping him downstairs and re-evaluated my attack plan. (We had been through this routine once before when I tried to smack him with my slipper for tearing up his dry cat food box one day, but that's another story.) Being the quick Jack Daniels type of thinker that I am, a brainfart moment struck me with an idea. I managed to stagger out and retrieve two of my kids "Super Soaker" water rifles (with cool shoulder slings of course) from the garage and hiccup my way back into the kitchen to fill them up. Twenty air pumps later they were both ready to fire their powerful cat terrorizing streams of water a good thirty feet away. The thought of camouflaging my face with shoe polish and donning my desert khakis entered my head. Would I need night vision for this? Bravely I opened the door and began tiptoeing down the steps. The rifles were slung around my neck, one in each hand. All of a sudden I was Schwarzenegger....I was Rambo....I was ready. As I stepped off the last stair, I swore I could hear "Pffft...Pffft...Pffft...Pffft" somewhere in the shadows, but no matter where I looked, he just wasn't there! He had somehow vanished. Was there a damn cat teleporter somewhere hidden in my house all this time? Had the mothership beamed him to safety? I swear to God he was no where to be found. Had the phone not rang at very moment, I probably would have destroyed my entire lower level looking for this strange purring beast with the magical powers. As luck would have it, the phone call forced my attention on other normal things and I gave up on the great bath war of 2008. The cat would have to wait and frankly I soon forgot about the intensity of the situation. Still, he never materialized from his hiding place.

An hour or so later my wife and little girls came home as I was hastily preparing a dinner. They walked in just as I was opening a can of cream of mushroom soup. In the flurry of their bouncy (and always vocal) arrival I remember fitting the can into the openers latch and pressing down the lever. The moment the humming of the electric can opener began I felt this eerie "being watched" feeling and sure enough, out of nowhere Simba was magically right there on the floor beside my feet, grinning. The can opener's sound deceived him into thinking I was opening up his dinner can. "Hmmm..." I remember thinking to myself. "I'll have to remember that....next time." For a split second, the thought of grabbing him by the tail, then twirling him around the room and flinging him through the open window seemed very appealing, but the girls were standing right there eagerly waiting to share their shopping experiences so I didn't. "How was your day, honey?" my wife asked while setting down bags. "Did you and Simba enjoy a peaceful day, just you two boys?" Simba and I looked directly at each other and just grinned.