Washing Pets - Frankie

This here cat is Frankie, a Red-tip Siamese mix cat. He's called Frankie because he's got this beautiful blue eyes, and my dad is a fan of Frank Sinatra (Old Blue Eyes). For the most part, he's a shy, small, fluffy cat, who'd rather do anything else than attack someone else.

Except, of course, when it comes to the evil, dark time of The Bath.

You must understand that Frankie is a rescued cat. Yes, every pet that we have had in the States has been a rescued pet. For the most part, it makes for a very sunny disposition. Frankie, however, belongs to the shy type of pet. He prefers the outdoors and only comes in when he's hungry, hurt, or cold. He'll spend a few minutes inside, and then head out.

He's very pretty, with a beautiful coat. And he's small, all of maybe 8 pounds. His coat gets dirty quickly, though . . . so my mom likes to bathe him. And Frankie is thankful for the baths -- after -- because he feels better clean.

Here's what happened:

My mom asks me to wash angelic little Frankie, and so I put out all the towels and get the bathroom ready. I even take off watch, because Frankie might latch on to it. My mom suggests that I get in the shower area with him and close the door behind me, but I don't heed her words. After all, it's only 8 pounds of shy, innocent, sweet kitty cat.

As soon as I grab him and take him into the bathroom, lil' Frankie goes from nervous shy cat to Tasmanian Devil (as in Warner Bros). This beast begins to howl, spit, twist, scratch, and attach the offending Human (me) for the indignity to follow.

Then the water gets turned on, and the ferocity reaches a new crescendo. I have to grab this spitting, fighting, twisting wet blanket by the scruff of the neck so hard that I am afraid I might hurt him. With the kitty thus inmobilized, I beging to wash, soap, and rinse Frankie.

Amazingly enough, he only nicked me in a couple of places, and my T-shirt only has two tears by the time the towels come out to get him dry.

The drying treatment is similar to Honey's . . . a complete rubdown from head to tail, and puts up with it. After a while, I let him go, and he proceeds to sit in a corner, drying himself up, looking at me with this "how dare you!" look.

About 30 minutes later, feeling fresher and cleaner, the furball siddles up to me and begins to purr as I pet him for a few minutes. All is well again.