We're having a heck of a time with Samantha. She's always shed a lot of hair, but now it's coming out in bales.
Last night we decided to do something about it. The first plan of action was to bathe her. Bad idea. Sam has no claws, but she still has strong opinions about getting wet, a heck of a right cross, and a left jab matched only by Mohammed Ali. Did you know that a cat faced with the prospect of getting wet can jump a shower door from a standing start, flat footed, then hide where a mouse couldn't?
It finally dawned on me to close the bathroom door--Duh!--then get Patty into the shower to help. Great idea. Patty and I soaped each other thoroughly, then proceeded--but I digress. Back to the cat, who by then was hiding undetected and unsearched-for behind the loo.
By the way, if you try this, be sure and rinse the soap off your feet before venturing out onto a tile floor in hopes of catching the cat. You will catch everything but the cat, and in the most unexpected and potentially painful parts of your unprotected anatomy. Also rinse and dry your hands, as you will need them to grab with (as in doorknobs, faucets, and occasionally yourself).
I coaxed her to me with hypocritical blandishments, scooped her up, and headed back to the shower. She was still dry, by the way. When I opened the shower door and tried to hand her to Patty, who was standing under a running shower (another bad idea), Sam ran up my arm, over my head (using my upper lip for a springboard--ouch!) and back behind the loo, or so I thought. As I got down on all fours to search for her, she came out from wherever else she might have been hiding and swatted me on my dangling participles, causing me to use some very bad language, punctuated by my head hitting the toilet.
Meanwhile, back in the shower, Patty was watching all this and going into hysterics, laughing so hard she had to sit down in the tub.
I finally corraled our recalcitrant bathee and carried her squirming and fighting back to the shower. Just as I handed her to Patty, Madam said in a stern, no-nonsense voice, "Samantha, you just knock that off, right now!" Sam knocked it off and meekly submitted. Women!
When Patty finished, there was enough hair in the tub to knit another cat. And after I towelled her off, there was that much more hair on the towel. I scooped her up to me and petted her, telling her what a good kitty she was, and when I set her down my chest looked as if I were wearing another cat. Hmmmmm.
I told Patty we hadn't solved the problem yet; she suggested I blow dry the cat, an idea I treated with the contempt it deserved. Also, the cord was too short.
Patty then went and got the Dust Buster. "That's not a good. . .Yipes!" At the first whir of the machine, Samantha went ballistic. We just thought she was frantic before. Now she was positively homicidal. Damn, she was mad! She managed to give me about three of her best rabbit kicks right in the old breadbasket, then turned and bit my thumb clean through. The next thing I saw was Patty running stark naked down the hallway after the rapidly disappearing cat, Dust Buster whirring away. I was not as persuaded as she that she would catch the cat, and subsequent results proved me right. Also, she managed to scare poor Cherokee half to death in the process.
Maybe if I put her in the dryer on low. . .