Washing the Cat

My husband suggested I post this video with this post, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's horrid. Don't watch it.

I thought you'd enjoy this little story I wrote recently. Here, for your reading pleasure, How Not to Wash the Cat:

"Mom, can we wash the cat?"

"No."

"Mom, can we wash the cat?"

"No."

"Mom, the cat's been rolling in the sand. He's really dirty. Can we wash the cat?"

"No, cats wash themselves. Don't ask again."

"Mom, can we wash the cat PLEASE?"

"Fine. You want to wash the cat, go wash the cat.'

My brother and I grabbed the cat and made a break for the bathroom. Lou, our cat, rolls in sand all the time and it turns him from orange to brown. He also gets sand all over my bed while I’m at school. Mom says if I made my bed every morning I wouldn't have to sleep on sandy sheets. I think if I washed the cat I wouldn't have to sleep on sandy sheets. I hate sandy sheets. And I know Lou hates being brown.

"Don't forget the towels and shampoo!" called Mom. "And keep the bathroom door closed! Let your brother run some water first. And keep the bathroom door CLOSED!"

"Alright, Mom!" Geez! You'd think I was two or something. I know how to wash a cat!

Lou doesn’t like water much, and he started squirming when my brother started the water running. Good thing I closed the door. Holding squirmy Lou, I leaned over the tub to see if there was enough water – and I let go of the cat. But he didn’t fall in. Instead, he grabbed my shirt with his claws. My shirt? He grabbed my skin and muscles and even my BONES with his claws! Little twinkly lights were jumping all around the room while my brother peeled Lou off of me.

I ran out of the bathroom, slammed the door, shot past my mom to the kitchen. “Where are you going?” asked Mom.

“Band-aids.”

Back in the bathroom, my brother was washing the cat without me. I could hear him, Lou I mean, meowling and screeching. I could hear the water splashing. I could hear my brother yelling something. Something I think I’ve heard Daddy yell when he’s fixing something and doesn’t think we’re listening. I ran back in, slamming the door shut behind me.

“Wait! I wanted to wash the cat!” Lou was covered in bubbles and my brother was soaking wet, with red scratches all over his face, crying a little. He says to tell you that he wasn’t crying, but I saw him. He says it was just the water from the tub. I know crying, and he was crying. I ran back to the kitchen, slamming the bathroom door behind me.

When I passed Mom she asked, “Where are you going?”

“Band-aids.”

When I opened the door, my brother was holding Lou by the tail with both hands, both of them yelling. I grabbed the towel and wrapped it around the cat. Brother says, “Cover his head! Wrap him tighter! Don’t let him go!” Then I walked down the hall to my Mom and set the cat in her lap, towel and all.

“We’re done,” I say. “You can dry him.”

I think, when we left the room, I heard Mom laugh.

Moo to You!

Flea