He’s always been our little guy. He’s very timid and quiet. He hides from strangers. Never bites or bares his claws. As far as cats go he’s a seven foot queen of a gay man with a tiny chihuahua peeking out of his man purse. But the one thing I forgot was that every gay man I know can fight like Mike Tyson after smoking a $20 rock.
He tried to climb the walls. He tried to climb me. He knocked me over. My wife thought I was moving furniture. Our soft, fat boy had, in a matter of seconds, converted the body built by a life of leisure into an engine of muscle and bone with a single purpose: escape. I muscled him back into the tub and got the soap on him. He was now not only wet but slippery. I know there is a part of me that is suicidal because I suddenly had the thought “I can keep him in the tub if I get in with him and slide the shower door shut”.
With a laugh that is only possible when your reptile brain has seized the wheel and screamed “THIS IS THE END! ARMAGEDDON!” I followed the instructions and began to build up a luxurious lather by rubbing the soap into his fur, being careful to avoid his eyes. It’s kind of a blur of lathering, rinsing and repeating after that. I’m pretty sure I lost consciousness at least once but Mr Teatime appears to be clean and won’t come anywhere near me.
