Blur of Fur

Some cats actually enjoy being bathed. My friend Bruce Archibald, owner of Unique Petique Pet Supplies in Long Beach, Washington, once told me how he successfully bathed his cat, Fluffy.

Bruce recounted how his curious kitty had batted some bubbles in the bathtub water and how he had gently lowered his blue-eyed beauty into the tub. All went well, he assured me, until he had to chase the critter around the living room with a blow dryer, equipped with only a four foot cord.

Inspired by Bruce’s story, I recently decided that my three-year-old Siamese mix, Oscar, should also be “cleaned.” He had rolled in something stinky and smelled like an ocean side port-a-potty.

But, I wondered, how do I do it? First I checked out a copy of Complete Cat Care Manual by Andrew Edney—B.V.M.M.R.C.V.S. Armed with those impressive initials, Edney offers a “simple” seven-step procedure for bathing a cat.

“Make sure you get everything ready beforehand,” he advises. Further: “You may need to enlist the aid of an assistant who can help you keep the cat calm and reassure it while it is being bathed.” (Sure. Right.)

Step four urges cat custodians to “handle the cat firmly but gently. A cat does not like getting his fur wet and may try to scratch or bite. Talk to the cat to reassure it.” (That word “reassure” kept popping up and was starting to bother me.) Under step seven, Edney declares: “If the cat is not frightened, dry it thoroughly with a hairdryer.” (Now the word “If” was starting to bother me.)

Since option one seemed a bit scary, I pursued option two—purchasing helpful items to alleviate hazardous duty. I found a pricey item in the R. C. Steel Pet Supplies catalog, the Bath’n Carry—a “pet-friendly restraint [that] comfortably slips over your cat to secure him without trauma.” Something that could safely immobilize Oscar.

Bruce’s store also afforded some useful “backup” items. I could purchase a bottle of Quick’n Easy Cat and Kitten Shampoo that didn’t require cat dipping. Or Quick Bath with its five pre-moistened wipes. Possibly a Quick-fit Muzzle. Or maybe some stress-reduction pills for Oscar (or me

But it was option three that won out. Always one to savor new adventures, I opted to bathe Oscar the old-fashioned way—shampoo and water, in the shower.

Weighing the situation, I concluded that Oscar had the advantage of quickness, cunning, claws that can remove all skin from my body, and a lack of concern for human life. I had the element of surprise, strength, and the advantage of battlefield selection.

So I chose a fairly large bathroom with a shower enclosed by a sturdy glass door. I needed a small manageable area for the skirmish, ruling out shower curtains or other three-ply covers that cats can shred quicker than plotting politicians can shift positions.

Heeding some sound advice from Bud Herron’s classic “Cat Bathing as a Martial Art,” I next assembled my special wardrobe for the occasion-- canvas overalls to be tucked into high-top construction boots, steel-mesh gloves, a bullet-scarred Belgian army helmet, a hockey face mask, and a long-sleeved flak jacket.

I began by nonchalantly scooping up Oscar, as if to transport him to his food dish. Since cats are seldom fashion-conscious, Oscar hardly noticed my attire.

With everything carefully laid out in the bathroom, I moved inside and, in one liquid motion, shut the bathroom door, stepped into the shower enclosure, shut the glass door, dipped Oscar in the running water, and squirted him several times with shampoo.

It’s difficult to describe the next 60 seconds, since Oscar had soapy fur and no handles. He was more or less rinsing himself. It’s all a blur of fur now.

Oscar then required drying--something quite simple, since Oscar was semi-permanently attached to my right leg. I dragged him out of the shower toward the electrical outlets so I could blow-dry him. Drying out just a bit and leaving a trail of smoke, Oscar scurried out of the room to hide and plot his revenge. I rinsed the blood off my face and arms, recalling that riveting scene from the film, “Psycho.”

Oh well. Oscar did smell a lot better and I –I still had my pride. I’m feeling much better now. My arm scratches are fading, the red marks on my right leg are barely noticeable, and my partial hearing loss is subsiding. Looks like I’ve beaten the odds.

The other day, I picked up my Webster’s and found mostly-negative words that started with “C-A-T.” Ugly words like cataclysm, catalepsy, catapult, catastrophe, catatonia, catcall, catfight and catty seemed to describe my struggle to bathe Oscar.

Only a few words starting with “C-A-T’ offer pleasant denotations. Sure, I did manage to take some pleasant catnaps after the ordeal, and my “victory” over Oscar did provide some sort of catharsis for me. But, all things considered, I’ll never try to bathe Oscar again. It’s too much of a Catch-22.

Lesson learned? Unless you loved Alfred Hitchcock’s shower scene in Psycho, don’t put your kittie in the shower.