Lessons In Stalking: Adjusting to Life With Cats Read Online Free Page B

Fatal cat disease! Crystals in the urine! Have you seen any?”
    I race back upstairs, not giving him a chance to answer.
    The website indicates cats with urinary tract infections need to drink a lot of water, adding that with their inquisitive nature, cats are more likely to drink out of bowls placed in odd spots around the home. They also say some cats enjoy drinking from running water.
    The next afternoon my husband approaches me.
    “Why is my shower running?” he asks.
    “In case the cat gets thirsty,” I reply. “Can you move?
    You’re blocking the TV.”
    Later that night he appears again, clenching a dripping sock in one hand.
    “Did you know there’s a pan full of water at the top of the stairs?” he asks.
    “Yes,” I say. “There are also bowls of water under the dining room table, in the laundry room, on top of the dresser in the guest bedroom, and under the bathroom sink.”
    “Why don’t you just take her to the vet?” he begs.
    I take her the next day. Returning home, I release the cat and stand in front of my husband.
    “Well?”
    “It’s not good,” I begin.
    He puts a hand to his heart. “Oh my God. You mean she’s…she’s…”
    “Oh, no, the cat’s fine,” I say, waving away his concern.
    “We’re the ones in trouble.” I pause, wondering how to relay the information I possess. I decide to just shoot it out there.
    “We have to wipe her butt. Daily.”
    He blinks. Opens his mouth. Thinks better of it. Opens it again.
    “Why?” finally comes out.
    “Because,” I sigh. “She’s too fat and her skin is folding over and trapping pieces of…you know…in the area of her—“
    “Lalalalalalalalala,” says my husband, sticking fingers in both ears.“I can’t hear you. Lalalalalalalala…”
    I give him “the look.”
    He removes his fingers. “Look here,” he says. “You said cats were easy.” He points an accusatory finger at me.
    “In fact, you promised that all we had to do was feed and water and occasionally pet them. And NOW,” he raises his voice as I make to interrupt,“you’re telling me we have to catch and hold down a creature—with claws—so we can wash poo from between the fatty folds of her butt?!”
     “Um, actually,” I say with a meek smile, “you have to wipe her butt. Poo makes me sick.”
    After several rounds of negotiations and the threat of divorce, I agree to at least hold the cat while he wipes.
    I lull the cat into a false sense of security by combing her for twenty minutes. When she is relaxed and purring, I motion for my husband, hiding low at the top of the stairs with a wet towel, to approach.
    “Is the towel the right temperature?” I whisper.
    “Not too hot and not too cold?”
    He glares at me.
    “Right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
    Gingerly, as if afraid she was wired with explosives, he lifts the cat’s tail. Her ears perk and she twists her head to look at him.
    “Easy now,” he says, wiping.
    “Mrow?” queries the cat.
    “I think she likes it,” I encourage.
    “That thought terrifies me,” says my husband, prying open folds of fat to clean between them.
    “Rrrrrrrrr.” The sound coming from her was half growl, half purr.
    “Hurry up,” I urge.
    “Do you want this end of the job?” he asks. “Because I’m willing to trade.”
    We finish cleaning and my husband attempts to hand me the brown-stained cloth.
    I make gagging noises and wave him away. “I can’t even look at that.”
    “Well, what should I do with it?”
    “Washing machine.”
    “Ewwww. I’m not putting kitty poo in the washing machine.”
    I look at him. “Please remind me to never bear you children,” I say.
    It got worse. I made the mistake of telling my mom about the butt-wiping. She was full of non-helpful suggestions.
    “Maybe you need a bigger litter box. Maybe she just can’t…you know…maneuver properly.”
    “The litter box is fine, Mom. The cat is just too fat.”
    “Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing.