Rubber Ducky Goes to the Hospital

Have you ever given a cat a bath? Hopefully if you do own a cat, and you decide to bathe her, it is only once…ever. Keeping this in mind, I’d like to flash us back to the worst day in the history of the world. This day surpasses the worst imaginable moments in history- and it happened two years ago in the small cramped office of my cat’s veterinarian.

“You need to bathe her at least twice a month.” These horrendous, gut-wrenching, dreaded words were directed at me.  My precious little she-devil was diagnosed with a skin condition, so on top of medication and monthly vet checkups, I had to bathe her. Myself.

The vet dropped her eyes to the sadistic cat in the crate at my feet, then gave me a pitiful smile. “Good luck.”

That moment changed my life forever. People laugh when I tell them, but they just don’t get it.

I’ve survived the Marine Corps, my parents’ divorce, my own divorce, and even falling off a cliff and almost drowning; I’ve endured being trampled by a horse, the affects of being bitten by a venomous snake, and getting stabbed by a broad sword. Nothing compares to attempting to get my little baby Ophelia wet.

My worst attempt at bathing Ophelia was in the beginning stages of learning how to bathe a cat. I thought it would be a wonderful idea to just take her into the shower with me. Twenty stitches, a hefty doctor bill, and the really awkward question of “You got scratched where?” taught me to avoid being near Ophelia when it was bath time. Unfortunately that didn’t work out too well since I was the one who has to bathe her.

She turns into freaking Houdini when it is bath time. It has gotten to the point where I literally have to just throw her into a tub full of soapy water and run away as fast as I can while praying for the best. Unfortunately this method (which I’d like to point out is the best method I have found) only works 1% of the time. I swear to God, I think Ophelia can teleport. Somehow mid-throw, she vanishes in midair and reappears in my hallway as dry as the Sahara Desert during a drought.

She even has this prissy, haughty look she gives me, full of contempt and disgust whenever I fail at getting her into the tub the first toss; and trust me, if I don’t make it that first toss, I’m screwed. Once the cat is out of the bag (no pun intended) I have to resort to putting on my hockey gear just to get near her without fear of a serious mauling.

If she could talk, I’m pretty sure she’d be laughing at me every time I try. I think she turned it into a game. How to Screw Up Monica’s Life during Bath Time, available in all local Superstores. The expansion pack is coming out next month, which includes limited edition Hello Kitty Band-Aids.

On another note, I have a cat for sale… and when I say sale, I mean I will give you money to take her.

Please, save me.

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You know that vomiting scene in the Exorcist? Yeah….

Almost all good stories start in the beginning, which is probably why the story of Hitler Ophelia starts smack dab in the middle of last night. Like most nights, Ophie has her scheduled “freak out”. I swear you can set your watch by her. Every night at 2 a.m., she comes flying into my room, yowling up a storm as she attempts to “kill” her toy mouse.

Her usually stealthy stalking techniques fly out the window as she attempts to trample the poor fake thing to death. Her 12 pound body sounds like a sumo-wrestler is trampling under my bed as she flings her body to and fro. Sometimes I think she envisions herself as a pirate lost at sea, meowing for me to save her. (But really just hoping I’ll die in the attempt so she can use my life-less body as a raft.)

Only, last night was different. Instead of finishing her daily “freak out” panting under the bed, growling at all the invisible creatures attempting to steal her kill, Ophie jumped up onto my bed and nuzzled me.  Usually any sign of affection is a prelude to an ongoing attempt to murder me, but this time, I thought she was sincere. So, as I scratched under her chin, and rubbed that sweet spot behind her ears, she purred so loudly, she sounded like a rattler snake……

….and then she threw up all over my stomach, comforter and wall. What she managed to miss in her puketastic stage of awesome, she covered with her vile bile since she immediately decided to finish her nightly rituals by running through the still-warm vomit and spreading it to the foot of my bed and into the hallway.

So, as I spent all night scrubbing my mattress, hoping it doesn’t smell like Purina One Shredded Salmon for the rest of my life, I happened to glance over to the hallway where Ophie is usually creeping and I what I saw scared the crap out of me. There she sat, her slitted oval eyes glaring at me as I destroyed her beautiful masterpiece. Her tail twitched back and forth, showing her annoyance and as her head lowered slightly, I felt that moment of panic (like right before a car accident. You see it coming, but can do nothing to stop it) hoping she wouldn’t do anything else. Fortunately I managed to get the bedroom door closed before she could proceed with her threat. Unfortunately, Ophie got into my cabinets after the vomiting fiasco and ate an entire loaf of bread. I found the plastic remains this morning. The scary part is, all my cabinets are child-proofed because of her. So now I’m not entirely convinced she is just a cat.

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The She-Devil.

And on another note- I have a cat for sale. Very unique. Has a Hitler ‘stache… in fact, you can have her for free. I’ll even throw in a month long supply of cat litter if you take her as far away from me as possible. I hear Antarctica is beautiful this time of year.