Bathing cats

Yesterday, despite the Frontline which I faithfully apply, much to the irritation of Amber Kitty, Pancho had a flea. So both cats were ushered, yowling and hissing, into the shower stall for a shampoo with Dawn dish soap.

Amber, when wet, looks like a potato on toothpicks. She is smart enough to try to pry open the sliding glass doors, squeezing her tuberous self through any and all slots or openings she could find, yodeling quite loudly, causing Nash, in the next room, to alert to the existence of cats in the bathroom and announce loudly that he could take care of that problem once and for all.

Pancho took a different tack. He tried to go out over the top, climbing on the seats in the stall, climbing my bare legs, latching onto my tee shirt when I bent over to spray him and riding up when I stood, attempting to launch himself off my shoulders and into an eight-inch opening six feet off the floor. Of course, because of his desperation, his aim was off, and he splatted his wet feline self onto the ceiling of the shower stall, leaving wet cat prints outlined in hair behind as he traveled back to Earth, digging his claws into my body in an attempt to break the fall.

Today, neither one of them is speaking to me except to hiss whenever I get too close.