Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Bathing the Cats


In deep summer it became an annual tradition to toss the cats into the creek. I don't know when it started. Or whose idea it was to toss them in the creek. Sure, they'd get upset when I chucked them into the pool below our house. They'd grumble and yodel all the way down to the creek, they knew what was coming, but they never clawed me. After I tossed them in, they'd dog-paddle to the nearest shore and then streak back up to the house shaking their paws in disgust. But then they'd flop down for an earnest wash, as if the creek bath wasn't enough. When they were all clean and fluffy, they were proud of their coats. They'd purp and preen and purr. I was forgiven until next summer. They were durty barnyard tomcats. Not like indoor cats. They were slovenly and stank like old dust and stale morning breath. They kicked up their bathing habits a notch for a few months, but by the time summer rolled around again, they slid back into their slovenly ways. But I loved every one of them fiercely. I dressed them in dolly clothes. And I named them all.


Sure they'd get upset when I tossed them into the creek, then they'd flop down for a good wash, all clean and fluffy. All proud of their coats. They were durty barnyard tomcats. Not like indooor cats. But I loved every one fiercely. And named them all. Dressed them in dolly clothes.

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