"Give me tuna or you will be destroyed. Eliminated!"
Oliver has very soft fur. So soft that it doesn’t actually register a sensation on your fingertips. My mom calls it linty soft fur. Fur like that takes a lot of work and dedication.
It is lucky that Oli likes to bathe.
It is lucky that he finally learned how.
Bathing, it turns out, is a learned behavior in cats. When Oliver was a baby they told me to wipe him with a damp cloth to teach him to bathe. I did so. Often. My lessons, though, didn’t seem to teach him anything other than to run from me when I was holding a washcloth. He didn’t like it. I didn’t like it.
To add to the issue, a washcloth is not a suitable replacement for the super duper dry cleaning wonderfulness of a cat’s tongue.
Although Poco wanted nothing to do with this grey intruder, she did finally put us all out of our misery. She pinned Oliver down and washed him head to toe. Miracle! Not only did Oliver figure out how to bathe but he figured out that he LOVES to bathe. He will lick himself soggy several times a day.
And though we all love The Boy, he does have cooties. Being petted by The Boy usually results in the need for an extra bathe. On a low cootie count day he might get by with a spot wash of the general petted area.
The other day, Oliver was laying with me on the couch for some quality snuggle time. He was purring. I was scritching his head. He was happy-squinting at me. I was sweet talking to him. Then it happened…
Oliver’s tongue shot straight out of his mouth. His mouth opened a little wider and his tongue waggled off to the side. With an alarmed look on his face, Oli jumped down to the floor. His tongue waggled to the other side of his mouth.
What. The. Heck?
Then Oli place his waggling tongue to his side and the bath was begun. Not even a good quality snuggle can come between a kitten and his bathtime. The autolickemator is set to go off at a regularly scheduled time.
As I said, soft fur requires hard work, dedication…and a mouth with a mind of its own.
It’s Thunder Thursday! Today I bring you Toby, my friend Kevin’s cocker spaniel.
"A happy dog is...well...a dog."
Toby loves me. I love the Tobers. Yet, I have never been asked to dog sit. I chalk this up to three reasons:
a) Toby, and his feline brother Katman, are pretty self sufficient with their doggie door and bowls of kibble.
b) Kevin is from Cheyenne and has family in town.
c) If I had half an hour alone with Toby he’d have a blue mohawk. His hair cries out for a cyan mo.
"A little aquanet and I'll be ready to rock."