Shampoo and Set

Cats are featuring rather prominently in my life at the moment, what with the arrival of Queen Derek of Ditch into our lives, and then finding out, that like her adoptive mother, she spends rather a lot of time on the CLD ™, with optional fur extras.

Then there is the whole being doused in cat wee at mum’s house this week.

And the fact that I have agreed to help her out with Tess next time I go over to their house.  Tess has a paw problem, along with all her other problems (she is nearly  18, which is about eleventy billion years old in cat years, to be fair to her).  She quite often gets a septic toe, for which she has to have antibiotics.  It keeps recurring, and as her kidneys are not of the briskest, it is best that she doesn’t have repeated doses of meds.

The vet has suggested that mum use a special type of cat shampoo, which should address the problem.

The words ‘cat’ and ‘shampoo’ should never be used in such close proximity as I am sure you are aware.  In fact, the two words, when placed next to each other on the page can be interpreted to mean: ‘Gigantic ball ache for you. Human!’

She does not have to shampoo the entire cat, which you think would be some kind of consolation.  Except that it isn’t. At all.

No. She has to shampoo the cat’s foot briskly once a day.  Then she has to keep the shampoo on the cat’s foot for ten minutes to allow it to soak in, before washing it off.

Every day for several weeks, and then twice a week forever.

Yikes.

It sounds so simple.  It is not.

I have to help because Tess used to be my cat.

I also have previous experience of cat shampoo disasters.

I would not say that this qualifies me to help.  I would say that this qualifies me to be a hindrance.

But there you go.

I shall share my previous experiences with you.  I have blogged this before, but it was hundreds of years ago, and I do like to get my money’s worth from a story.

When I first lived in London with UE, we had two cats, Ronnie and Reggie (yes. Named after the Kray twins).  He got them for me after I suffered a particularly vicious miscarriage, as a consolation prize.

We had to take Ronnie to the vet for something or other.  As a parting shot the vet said he thought that Ronnie might be suffering from skin mites.  He gave me some shampoo for it.  I had to lather him, rinse and repeat.

I was suspicious then of the matter of fact way in which the vet was talking about shampoo and cats.  I grew up around them, and I can’t honestly say that cats have ever been big fans of soap and water.

Nevertheless, I wanted to do my best by Ronnie, so I trotted home with him and incarcerated myself in the bathroom with the cat, the shower attachment and the shampoo.

Ronnie was huge. He wasn’t a kitten when we had him, and he was an enormous, sleek, black beastie of epic proportions.

Luckily for me he was also a total wede and an uter wet.

I plonked him in the bottom of the bath.  He sat there like a total numpty.

I turned on the shower and wet him through.

He sat there with a bemused expression on his face.

I could not believe my luck.

I squeezed out the shampoo and lathered him all over.

He sat there, looking smaller and smaller by the second, covered in lather, with his huge, lamp like eyes radiating humiliation between the bubbles.

I needed to pick him up to lather his belly.  I picked him up by the scruff.

He elongated and elongated.  I thought his bones might have melted in the shower.

I had to stand on the toilet seat in the end he was so long.  He measured about three feet from end to end.

He sagged from my hand, oozing in feline puddles.

I began to panic.

Then as I started to rinse him off he just stiffened, all over.

He literally went catatonic, there and then.

His eyes went all glassy.

I thought I had killed him.

I decided that I could do nothing with a soapy dead cat.

I finished rinsing him off.

He just carried on being all rigid and glassy.

I rolled him in a towel, like a giant cat dog.

He stayed as stiff as a board.

I manoeuvred him onto the landing and into our bedroom, taking care not to knock his head off on the door posts as I went.

I unrolled him on the bed, like a furry Arabian princess rolling out of a carpet for the delectation of her prince.

I sat and looked at him for a while.

I had no idea what to do with him.

Tears were welling in my eyes.  It was very emotional.

I decided to finish off, so I got the hair dryer out, plugged it in, turned it on and pointed it at the stiff, furry object on the bed.

As soon as the hot air touched his fur he shot up into the air like a rocket.

I screamed.

He yowled.

He raced round and round the bedroom and then hid under the wardrobe.

For about a week.

It was very traumatic for both of us.

So why mum thinks I’m going to be good with cat shampoo I really don’t know.

I will keep you posted.

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