I just gave Renton the Cat a bath. He’s off sulking and cleaning himself the old-fashioned way, apalled I would do such a thing to his fine fur coat. At least he tolerates baths; I am lucky in that.
Long before I even got Renton, I had a vision of how my cat (I knew someday I was gonna get another cat) was going to be. There was a list of things it was going to do, or not do. Let’s see how Young Renton compares:
Going to be Siamese — bingo on that, I did manage to find a Siamese
Going to be named Splat — I was nixed on this by my whole set of family, friends, and aquaintances; they said he’d be hit by a car or a steamroller, or fall out of a really tall window
Going to take a shower with me every morning, love water in general — that’s a no on the shower, and I don’t think he likes water in general, but he does tolerate his weekly bath, so I give myself half credit on that one
Going to use the toliet, no litterbox for me — Uhh, we’re working on that. . . (half-credit)
Going to love everybody — That’s usually true, he hasn’t met a stranger. He does hiss at Willis, but I think he does that for kicks
Going to have his own little kitty room — Kitty room?? He’s taken over the whole house!
Going to travel well — Yes, he does travel quite well; I’m always carting him off to Birmingham or Auburn
So that’s a four out of seven, all total. He didn’t do too bad. Of course, I didn’t think about all the little pasttimes he would aquire, like eating red sweaters, knocking contents of my purse under the couch, and wreaking havoc on the kitchen counters. Maybe that’s just the price I’ll pay for him to be toliet trained (come on, Renton, it’s a simple concept. . .)
And now I must go. Carrie the Counselor’s job is never done. . .