Bathing of the Cats

I woke up at 1 in the afternoon, and realized the starched stiffness of summer's breath blowing in my face. Today was hot. I figured, nobody was home, the landlady was away, I'll go gather up Goldie and Smokey and give them their first flea bath since their birth three months ago. We didn't have fleas until their whoring mother decided that she'd abandon her latest litter to get some good cat cock. Damned landlady doesn't want to get her fixed. The woman's the epitome of all things that makes feminists, even marginal ones at that, retch: She "can't" get dirty, she "shouldn't" have to know how to change a tire, she "isn't" responsible for upkeep of her own properties. I plunked down 130 bucks for a damn weedwhacker because she couldn't understand that a spark plug and petrol containers were to be bought at a hardware store and used to get the lawnmower up and running, even for a pitifully small city backyard. And at 51, she claims she's "old," even though my 64 year old grandma worked the backyard and gardened and fixed up the house up to the day before her death, and with two half-foot steel rods to keep her spine from collapsing. That, folks, is a real woman; one who knows how to gently pluck strawberries off the tender verdant stems, cook up a loving batch of chocolate cookies when you've skinned your knee, and also be able to teach the finer nuances of a right jab. In other words, she could whip up a cake and whip your ass straight, yo. So I've my orange-and-cream cat nibbling himself raw, and my indigo cat going crazy on the floor because they're biting him where he can't scratch himself. I gather up Goldie off the floor, sweet-talk him, put him into the bathroom, run a little warm water, put on some Barry White, and got out the flea shampoo. I undid his collar lovingly, and he began to eye me suspiciously. His back stiffened some, his eyes blazed more yellowishly. I picked him up and tried to gently set him into the bath tub.Bam! This little cat goes ballistic, becomes a streak of gold across the room. I let him frenzy until he's worn out, then try again. Fait accompli. So I pick him up, sweet-talk him again, and hand-ladle water on him. He's staring me into the eye, giving me the svengali look of death, the feline mafioso doom-gaze. I'm wondering if he wants to claw my throat out when I sleep, so I make a mental note to lock my door. After a while I got his shoulders slightly pinned, his hindlegs into a warm pool of water in the sink, and getting the green goop on him. Goldie's sticking his head into my armpit, so I drew him close, and kept shampooing him. A few minutes of watering him down and drying him, He come out tan and rather pissed, shaking his paws and swearing death upon me. One down.I get Smokey, and he's all nonchalant, lying on the floor like he was THE boss, and cradle him, walking upstairs. He passes Goldie, who's still venting, and starts to panic a little. Telepathy rocks. I pour some warm water, play a little De La Soul, light a few candles, and undo his collar. He's looking at me the way a girl looks at me when she thinks I've slept with her roommate, much to the contrary. I get him to touch down on the slightly warmed porcelain, and he goes upwards and over my shoulder. Battle wounds, amigo. This one takes longer; Smokey's Houdini stylings are foiled each time by the closed door, but he incurs a few scratches on me every time he pops, twists, slithers and shake 'n bakes out of my hands. Dispassionate, I get myself wet and lather him up, making my clothes into a soapy mess. After drying and such, he falls asleep in the towel, so I lay him out and return the towel to the landlady's rack. She's awfully ignorant too, so I doubt she would ever notice the smell of flea shampoo on her towel.To earn back their respect, I fill up their milk saucer to the brim. They're pleasantly surprised; the milk saucer is half-filled when it is 8pm, and to get it at 2:30 in the afternoon, just like a kid getting a pint of ice cream for breakfast. My mom walks in from her job, laughing when she sees the two surly, partially soaked cats lapping up milk as the newer litter milled about, crashing into their older brothers and sniffing their legs. Afterwards, Goldie and Smokey let me pet them again, and their coats are very silky and shiny, and neither one has scratched himself lately. I think they understood what I was doing for them, even if it meant getting them wet. Cats.