There was a news story last year about a family who called the police on their house cat because it became so vicious and locked them inside the bathroom. THE CAT PHYSICALLY LOCKED THEM IN THE BATHROOM. The cat ripped his own family to shreds.
I remember listening to the news story one morning with my cup of coffee and giggling like a maniac because the whole thing sounded so ridiculous. How does someone call the police on a cat? In the end, they quarantined the cat for various reasons before returning him to their owner. When I googled the news story, this apparently happens more often than we think since I found three separate events with the same idea in Connecticut, Oregon, and Florida.
I never thought I would experience something similar until it splashed right in my face, literally.
Some of you may remember that I took in a stray back in August and we’ve had him ever since. He’s an adorable 6 month old black kitten and for now, we are fostering him, taking him to little kitty events where people play with him and then walk away forgetting all about him. I already own a orange tabby cat named Mumford, and in comparison to Shitty Kitty (we are terrible foster parents, clearly), they are vastly different. Shitty Kitty is named Shitty Kitty for a reason. He smells all the time. He’s a bottomless pit when it comes to food, and he always makes a mess when he goes to the bathroom. After some observation, I’m convinced Mumford has OCD or something since he is constantly cleaning himself, and he takes little nibbles when he eats as opposed to mowing down.
Last night, I decided to give Shitty Kitty a bath. The first time I tried it, he had been in our apartment for a whole two hours and it was a struggle. I figured it has been two months since then, maybe he will be better.
I was sadly mistaken. I placed Shitty Kitty nicely in the tub of warm water and he immediately freaked out. He splashed, flailed, meowed the deepest cry I’ve ever heard, and practically climbed up the tiled wall like Spiderman. I let him scurry out and began laughing hysterically at how silly he was being. I placed him in the tub once more, only this time, he stuck one of his claws deep into my arm. He was attached to my limb and wouldn’t let go. I began screaming, trying to pry his little paw out of my skin when he went insane and began biting down on my hand.
It was his planned murderous plot to get rid of the hand that would unhook his claw out of my vein. I swear we wrestled for a whole 5 seconds before Sam busted into the bathroom to break up the feud. I imagine all Sam could hear behind the closed door was splashing water, low deep meows, and screaming. What was once a loving relationship turned sour very quickly. Sam grabbed Shitty Kitty and basically tossed him into the tub a couple of times. We figured the only way to bathe him was to lather him up in soap and toss him in the tub to wash off a few times like he was stir fry.
We finally found a way to stick him in the sink, Sam holding him down like Shitty Kitty owed him money, while I dropped a few cups of water over his body to get the soap off. The look on his face was terrifying, like he was going to get me back somehow.
Afterwards, my bathroom looked a little something like this:
It took a couple of hours, but Shitty Kitty finally made his way back into my lap to cuddle, but I’m a bit wary. I feel like I need to sleep with a knife under my pillow.