A cat may look at a king...
Actually cats do anything they like, rule the roost, train their humans, plot the domination of the world (oh no, that's the mouse called Brain, cats have already taken over!) or just sit and watch with quiet eyes that see 360 degrees.Furball made an excursion into the great outdoors. He is convinced there is some better place to be, with more toys, more fun, more appealing food, more something behind every door that is closed. I think it was Heinlein who wrote Door into Summer, one of my favorite Sci Fi stories, which had a very important cat as one of the characters.
Each cat knows on some genetic level that there is a magic door that leads to cat paradise and we humans keep this knowledge to ourselves. Cruel creatures that we are.
The other day I opened up the oven, fully heated, to put fish in to bake and Furball hopped up, in and out so quickly that he didn't singe a hair or blister a paw. Yet he looked at me with those great eyes as if I planned the whole thing.
So he went outdoors, I hovered by the window just in case the feral cats came swooping in to stake a claim, or, even worse, the pair of dogs across the way, which might be fast enough to catch a neophyte who hasn't learned the world is not solely inhabited by mountains that dispense food or baby talk.
When he headed for the 'way over yonder' of the neighbours' yard I went and fetched him back, ignored his squalling and blessed the moment silence fell until I saw the scratching start. Way too much for a transitory itch, this flurry of back feet and claws meant trouble and sure enough, beneath the layer of white fur, I could see the dark forms of invaders. Fleas! Lots of them. All over Furball.
He was so trusting as I put him in the sink and turned the water on. Even when I soaked him down he didn't struggle, just looked at me with that LOOK. Then when I lathered him up with baby shampoo with a drop of tea tree oil and a drop of lavender oil mixed in, his little sodden paws reached out and clung to the tap as to a lifeline in this new, wet, uncomfortable world. I washed and rinsed and marvelled at the sheer number of parasites he had acquired in a mere fifteen minutes.
I washed and rinsed again, then took him out to comb and dry on the back porch in the sun. Poor little soggy thing. He started to shiver despite the brisk rubbing so I took him back in and used the hairdryer on him, low speed, just warm. So now, I have this fluffy, sweet-smelling cat who is attacking me from behind every chair, eyes intent on mayhem, and I think I did not get all the bloody fleas either as I saw him scratch again just now.
One of the disadvantages of living in Barbados is not being able to run down to the neighbourhood drugstore or pet store (especially on Sunday) to pick up flea collars for cats or even treatment for the yard or foggers for the house. And me, I have showered twice, changed and laundered all the clothes I wore while treating him and still feel the need to scratch.
This too shall pass.
I hope.
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KAT