Cats are tidy creatures. They like to keep their fur clean and tidy. Licking and polishing, their specialized tongue hooks do an amazing job.
But sometimes the tongue just isn't enough.
So there was Papa, scritching around in the catbox like cats do, doing his...business. But he's got a hairy back-end, quite the fuzzy breaches on that cat, and today the business did not make a clean...exit. What's a cat to do in such a situation?
There's the toilet paper roll right there, but without opposable thumbs it might as well be on the moon. What's a neat cat to do?
Ahhh! Of course! Right outside the potty room is this LOVELY butt-cleaning surface. Just a little... skootching... and it will be all better. The napping humans won't even notice...
::skootch::
::skootch::
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So there I was, napping on the couch, and I hear an odd popping sound like claws in the carpet, but not like the usual popping sound (yeah; we're getting wood floors this year). I looked blearily over the arm of the couch to see what it was, only to find Papa in the booty-scoot position. If you have a pet you know what I mean. Okay, if your pet is a snake or iguana, you might not know. But the rest of you have seen this before!
There's a streak behind him, and he knows it, since once he's heard me stirring he dashes off into the other room. Cats and their guilty consciences.
Dear god, and now the smell comes... I poke the napping Marla and she awakens to the horror.
We sit there struck dumb by the stench for a moment, and then spring into action.
First, Marla locks the cat into the bathroom, sealing it away from what is still clean in the house. She then goes to clean up the briches... a joyous task, you might imagine.
I get the carpet spray and clean the new decorations away. I’m also hoping for a quick resolution to this… I have to leave for Taiji soon!
Once done, I visit them in the bathroom... no, the tissue isn’t doing the job. Marla cajoles him to clean himself... “lick your butt cat! Come on, do your job!” But to no avail. He goes to tidy up, but recoils from his own scent. It certainly does NOT smell of roses.
I hold the cat and the scissors come into play, snipping away at the unclean fur. Snip! Snip! Papa is not happy.
The smell nearly does us in; what has he been eating! Ugh! Cat! Snip! Wipe! Unhappy sounds leak out from the cat, along with smell that has flies spinning dizzily in the corners of the room.
It’s no use. I have to run the bath. Papa recognizes the sound and cowers in the corner as best he can. It’s been years since we’ve put him in water, but he’s not forgotten. He’s good, though, only hooking one claw in my arm when I get careless, but otherwise submitting the terrible humiliation of having his back end washed.
Wiped, trimmed, and bathed, dried, the Papacat is not happy... but he’s clean.
Now he licks himself.
And I just make it out to Taiji in time.