Bathing a twenty pound maine coone…

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.


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