Have you ever noticed how quiet the house becomes when you tell a child it’s bath time? It’s almost like they melt into the framework and disappear from sight. You have to spend time tracking them down and lure them into the bathroom. Once they’re trapped, you start running the water and watching them look for any means of escape. Suddenly, the quiet is shattered by loud AWWWW’s and wailing NOOOOO’s. Occasionally you can hear the sound of bodies slipping against the wet tub and the pitter patter of feet scrabbling for purchase. Wait a minute . . . was I describing children or cats? For many breeders and show people, I doubt they could tell you the difference. It’s obvious which category I fall into. After six years, I feel confident in stating that I have become a real whiz at bathing the cats (please note that I do NOT claim to be an expert in this area).

Bathing the cats is so much . . . fun. I always make sure there are plenty of clean, dry towels on hand (one or two just isn’t enough) and some extra padding on the floor (the knees seem to have gotten flatter and knobbier over the last five or six years for some strange reason). I fill the tub to cat tummy depth with lukewarm water and strategically place the shampoo and the plastic mug I use for the rinse cycle. My towels are stacked next to the tub for easy access (you never know when a cat might decide that he can dry himself better than you can). All the time I’m preparing for the bathing ritual, my first victim . . . I’m sorry, I meant to say cat . . . is doing his or her best to blend in with the back, bottom side of the toilet (at one time I never would have guessed that a full grown male cat could actually fit under there). Fully believing that my cats really like the water (I seem to recall someone telling me they did) and are just playing hard to get, I calmly sit on the edge of the tub and talk to them. By the time I’ve “talked” them into the tub by the scruff of their neck, the water has usually cooled to tepid.

With my usual optimistic flair, I tell my guy to stand still and wait while I fill up the mug with water. I’m sure you can imagine the adoring look he is giving me about that time as he flexes his wonderful muscles (just like the bodybuilders do) so that I can admire his marvelous physique. He is usually just getting to the point in his routine where he bunches his shoulder and neck muscles so that I will be able to see (and feel) them ripple when I blithely pour the first mug of water on him. When I think about it, I don’t believe I’ve ever been privileged to see his entire routine – can’t think why that is – oh well. After several mugs of water (and lots of soothing love talk), we are ready for the shampoo and wash phase.

I have learned that the instructions on many shampoo bottles are filled with the same mistake – “pour a small amount of shampoo in the palm of your hand.” I’m sure this is just a small oversight on someone’s part and could be easily corrected. In the meantime, I just squirt a line of the stuff down my guy’s back (still with lots of soothing love talk). Usually at this point we are playing to a full gallery and have to pause and “strut” our stuff (preferably over the edge of the tub if it isn’t too crowded). After reclaiming the shampoo bottle (don’t you just love those little push down tops they come with these days) and catching the mug before it disappears into the crowd as a souvenir, we get down to work and start scrubbing. I’ve never understood why he doesn’t like being rubbed in the tub as much as when he’s in bed with me – go figure. After spinning around a number of times to make sure I haven’t missed any spots, it’s time for the rinse cycle to begin.

Clutching my trusty mug to my chest (often the only way I can actually get the handle positioned correctly), I listen to his newest aria for a moment before the chorus starts harmonizing with him. Although I’ve noticed he has a tendency to break in the upper registers about the time I start pouring water down his back and sides (hmmmm). As soon as he finishes his aria, he dances a little jig to get the crowd a bit more involved in the act. While the audience is jumping up and down in excitement (not to mention, looking for cover from the light rain that has started falling), my guy is looking in the wings to see if the next act is ready. Seeing no one waiting to take this place, it soon becomes obvious that an encore is going to be required and he manfully puffs out his chest and bears up under the strain.

When I grab the washcloth and wring it out one-handed, he knows he’s approaching the end of the performance. The audience has melted away and he’s left alone in the spotlight to make his farewell song and dance (it always brings to mind Gene Kelly and “Singing In the Rain”). I catch him up in my arms (not to mention a really big towel) as he exits left (a true ballet leap if I’ve ever seen one) and shower him with attention (and lots of soothing love talk). It is only after he walks majestically away (I don’t have the heart to tell him that shaking a hind leg while he walks really kind of blows the image he’s hoping for), that I notice the audience is trying to fit into the space under the back side of the toilet.

After taking a moment to stretch out the kinks and re-pad the floor, I casually stroll over by the toilet and invite a member of the audience to participate. Not getting any volunteers, I target my quarry and wait for the right moment. As soon as their back is turned, I scoop them up and introduce them to the luxuries that can only be found in the depths of a relaxing bath at the local spa. And so it goes until every cat has been spit polished and fluffed.

Robin Creed owns Climbers Cattery where she raises and spoils Bengal cats. She has been raising and showing cats (not to mention bathing, lots and lots of bathing) in TICA for over six years. Her current show cat is a one-year-old SGC male with lots of personality and a couple of tricks in his bag (he plays dead on command and jumps through hoops).