Hand Wash Only: That Time I Tried to Bathe The Cat

Hi Beasties! I am going to tell you the story of the time I tried to bathe the cat. Buckle up, buttercups.

When I was four, my best friend was a goat. I was cool with the ducks and chickens, but the goat was my homie. At least until he ate part of my favorite Strawberry Shortcake shirt. We had beef from that point on. My true ride or dies were the dogs, Archie and Lobo. Then, there was my trusty sidekick, Wasted the Cat.

Oh yes. We lived on a ranch. Forgot to mention that.For a few years in my way-back youth, I lived on a ranch.

There weren’t any kids my age nearby and even if there were, my perpetual leg braces and casts I needed keep my leg muscles stretched were guaranteed human bestie repellent. The animals were way less judgmental. Goat even tried to hook a girl up by nibbling those pesky contraptions off every now and then. Bless his heart.

So anyway, yeah, I spent a lot of time playing outside with the animals. I considered them all mine. I was their benevolent ruler. My first little Queendom, if you will.

Meet the Barkers

If you know anything about ranch and farm pets, you know that they are really… umm… different. And if you don’t know anything about ranch and farm pets, let me tell you – they are really… umm… different.

I mean, the goats had their place, but the chickens were cool with the ducks and all chilled with the dogs. They did at least until Archie tried to eat them. Then they scattered like the wind.

But the dogs, oh those doggos! They were forever at my side from the second I stepped (or limped, hobbled, and/or wobbled) outside) until it was time to go in and wash the smell of stinky dog off me.

Lobo was a gorgeous giant salt and pepper beast of 1/2 mutt and 1/2 wolf who would softly take food from my offered hand. Lobo was a quiet observer who only terrified me once. He barked and lunged at me, and that was only to grab the snake slithering behind me.

He killed it.

Archie? Archie was a perpetually smelly burnt orange dog who terrorized every type of live poultry on our bit of land. No matter how often he got bathed, he just… stank. I mean, we tried, man. We really did. After his baths? He just smelled like Johnson’s Baby Shampoo and death’s butt. Then he’d find a puddle or something to get rid of that baby shampoo smell for his preferred eye watering stench. He was a wicked hot mess, and we just loved him and accepted that he would always smell like rotted corpse.

Then there was Wasted. Technically, Wasted was my sister’s cat, but I claimed him in the name of Jenntopia. At least I did when she wasn’t home. Since she’s a bit more than 12 years older than me and so obviously had some kind of social life, I claimed him a lot.

Yes, 12 years older. My family tree is a beautiful messy vine. That’s a bunch of other stories. Don’t worry. We’ll probably get there eventually. Let me just toe dip into the deep pools of my trauma. Dang, nosies. 😘

Not a Normal Cat

So, like I was saying, even though he was not a normal cat, Wasted was a typical farm pet. Meaning, the dude was weird. He was just a kitten when my sister was gifted this cute orange fluff ball, so all he knew was ranch life. He never really meowed, but instead did this weird hybrid bark thing to try to be like the dogs. And he chased the baby chicks like Archie did, but thankfully never tried actually eating them. And he would ride on Lobo’s back when he got too tired or couldn’t keep up with their running. He was a hoot. Weird, but a hoot.

Even how he got the name Wasted wasn’t normal. He walked into walls. That’s it. That’s the story. But like full speed. He’d run down the hall and rattle the whole dang house because he’d miss the doorway and hit the wall with his whole self. It was wild. My sister was worried something was wrong with him, so she took him to the vet. Nope. nothing wrong with him.  He just… walked into walls. Like a silly fluffy drunk. I’m pretty sure he had another name at first, but clearly that one didn’t stick because I do not remember at all. He’s always been… Wasted.

And he loved, LOOOOOOVED to be outside. He’d whine if he was stuck inside while everyone else was out playing. Then he’d do his weird cat-bark thing and look all pitiful at the door. The guy just wanted to play with his friends. Who wouldn’t? We were cool.

So It Started Like This

Like I said, even though I did declare Wasted in the name of Jenntopia, he was still my sister’s cat. And like it or not, she was the boss of me. Or bossy of me… Well, both actually. Anyway, she was very protective and attentive towards Wasted. She was a very sweet cat momma. He was scheduled for a vet appointment one day for after she got out of school, so the night before, she bathed him and got his carrier and supplies all set out to go.

“Do NOT let him out tomorrow. He just had a bath and has a doctor appointment tomorrow. Got it, Jenn? DO NOT LET HIM OUTSIDE!”

“I got it.”

And I did. Completely understood. He had to be clean for his doctor’s visit. Duh. I’m not an idiot. Also, I was (and am) afraid of my big sis. 

But.

Look. I fully intended to listen to my sister’s instructions. Bad things happened to me when I didn’t. In fact, I planned on just staying inside and playing with my Strawberry Shortcake dolls and just keeping the cat company. It was going just be a calm and chill day. INDOORS.

But. BUT. Archie and Lobo were at the door begging for some attention. And who was I to deny my adoring fans? Sorry, Wasted. So I went out and we got into our usual imagination shenanigans. We went on safari, we played tag, we opened our mud bakery. You know, all the usual things besties do. But a trio just doesn’t vibe the same when you know it’s supposed to be a quartet. Poor pathetic Wasted was inside meow/barking at the screen door. Clawing and climbing and yelling at me about the betrayal he felt. A few minutes wouldn’t be too bad, would it? He’d be fine. I’d spray some Strawberry Shortcake perfume on him and no one would ever know. My sister would NEVER know. 

Obviously I let him out. I had to. And he promptly thanked me by jumping into to the duck’s kiddie pool and then dashing through the mud. I am telling y’all. The cat was weird.

Circling back to Archie real quick. I mentioned that he smelled, right? I cannot describe how bad he smelled.

So we played for a few minutes but you know how time works when you’re having fun and all that. Next thing I knew, it was much later than a few minutes and we all smelled like Archie.

Crap.

Gentle Cycle

Obviously there wasn’t any time for a full on bubble bath, but my brilliant four year-old brain had an idea. I’ve seen my Grandma do it a million times for my smelly stuffies. I’d use the washing machine. Pretty genius, right? I thought so! My little stuffed friends always came out NOT smelling like Archie anymore and perfectly lovely. And it happened so fast too! Since I knew Wasted didn’t need the dryer, it would definitely be so much faster. And how hard could it be? I saw Grandma do a million loads of laundry. It didn’t look hard at all. In fact, once I thought of it, I couldn’t believe my sister didn’t bathe the cat this way all the time! I mean, she sure did complain about how gross he was a lot. But I guess not everyone could be such an outside the box thinker like me.

I carried Wasted inside so we could do his quick bath. He didn’t fight me and I managed to put him in the washing machine. However, once he realized where he was and what was happening, he was NOT having it. But, you know, this was for the good of the people. And, by “the people”, I mean me. The good of me. Sis will KILL me if she sees. and/or smells you in this condition. So, Wasted… STAY PUT!  The detergent was a huge bin on the floor so, my short stack self reached it easily. I scooped a cup full of those funky blue granules and actually dumped them on his head. This did not improve his mood. But I was on a mission.

One thing I did not anticipate was not understanding the buttons and dials. I also couldn’t reach them. I was on a chair to reach everything I needed to as it was and those dang controls were still out of reach. Even if I could reach them, I had no idea what to push, dial to, pull. No clue.

That’s when I heard it.

Crap. Crap.

Run!

The front door opened. Big sister was home. That’s when true survival mode kicked in and I ran as fast as those braces would let me (not very). Luckily for Wasted, it was every man for himself and I had to leave him behind. Unluckily for him, that meant staying in the washing machine. Sorry, Wasted but we all have problems. My problem is that I’m a dead girl at the ripe old age of four. Wasted’s problem is that he’s trapped in a shiny metal tube with no way out. Too bad, so sad, buuuuut I gotta go.

I probably would have had a 5 minute lead on her if Wasted hadn’t been meowing so darned loud! While I was scrambling for a good hiding place, I could hear her screaming, “Wasted! How’d you get in there?! JENN!” This was not a “Honey, I’m home!” shout either. Why don’t braces come with sports mode?! (This was pre-Forrest Gump, by the way)

I ran to my favorite ‘alone’ spot: the small crawlspace between my sister’s waterbed and the wall. (it was the 80’s – waterbeds were a big deal and super cool back then). Nobody but me  could really fit back there very easily. Believe me when I say I took full advantage of this knowledge and ran my scrawny little butt directly to that safe space – away from angry hands.

“GET OUT! WHAT DID YOU DO?! WHY DOES MY CAT HAVE TIDE ALL OVER HIS HEAD?! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?! WHAT DID YOU DO?! GET OUT!”

Trapped in a Box

Friends, I was not about to move an inch to the left or right. In fact, I’m pretty sure I did not even breathe out of fear that inhaling would make me just big enough for her to reach out and snatch me to my pending doom. Since Sis was not kidding about Wasted’s vet appointment, I guess she figured she’d deal with me later.

She didn’t want to take the chance I’d escape without punishment and her wrath. Since I wasn’t budging, she blocked me in. Sis moved the nightstands to block each side of the crawlspace, leaving me in complete darkness with nothing to do but think about what I’ve done. That… was not fun. It was pitch black in there and terrifying, but you know what? She was scarier. The crawlspace had formed a “T”. There was an opening at each top end of the queen size waterbed and then had a bit of room right down the middle, but there wasn’t an opening at the foot.

Since I had time to explore (sort of) my new forever home, I found out that I can push out the drawers that were part of the waterbed’s frame. That gave me a little bit of light. I just couldn’t shove them all the way out and escape. So I opened all the drawers to get me out of pitch darkness and awaited my doom.

What’s the Lesson?

Thankfully, Wasted’s appointment went okay, and Sis was not as mad as when she left, but she was ready to explode, so there was plenty of anger left. I still wouldn’t leave the safety of the center of the crawlspace and hysterically explained how everything went wrong and Wasted ended up in the washing machine with detergent all over him. I then got the lesson on how live animals are not the same as stuffies and cannot be ran through a permanent press cycle. So no, I was not a genius who discovered a farm pet bathing shortcut. I was in fact, just a dumb ass.

But the real lesson was about the crawlspace. It was a great little hiding spot! I ended up stocking it with a Strawberry Shortcake bag of essentials: some books, dolls and a flashlight.  No way I was stuck bored in there again. That space actually became my favorite little hang out. It was my own little clubhouse.

 

For anyone who’s ever asked me “were you raised in a barn?” Yes, yes I was. Or at least near one.