The Black Furry Basketball

I have two cats that are nearly opposites. One is tiny, dainty, skinny, with long white fur and impeccable lady-like manners. The other looks like a black furry basketball with legs. If she were human she'd be the fat woman drinking beer at the local dive, spitting on the floor while insulting every other woman in the joint. The basketball is named Black Magic Cat. The poor thing has had diarrhea for the last two days. She's so fat she can't properly clean herself, and I got to the point where I decided she must have a bath. So I filled the kitchen sink with warm water, got a washcloth and captured the cat.

Cats don't like baths. I'm sure that's not a surprise to you. Magic hardly ever miaows. She was screaming bloody murder the whole time, squirming and trying desperately to escape. (Why hasn't she been declawed yet?!) That cat practically outweighs me, and she was pretty sure that if she tried hard enough she could mop the floor with me. Finally I decided her bottom was clean, and relaxed my grip ever so slightly. The next thing I know, my shirt has been given air conditioning courtesy of one seriously torked off cat. My bra now has claw snags in it. You don't need to be fluent in feline to figure out that Magic knows every dirty word there is, and is stringing them all together in a symphony of outrage.

And being a cat, she has her ways of making her displeasure felt. While I was sanitizing the sink she found my favorite chair, the one I sit in to watch TV and knit, and plopped her wet bottom right in it. When I went into the living room, there she was, smugly smiling at me as she rubbed her soaking wet butt into my chair.

Sigh.

I love my cats.