“Uh-uh! No way!” I insisted, shaking my head. “Bob, there’s no way I’m going to even try to give Happy a bath.”

“We have to, Pam. Giving Jack a bath doesn’t solve the problem unless Happy gets one, too.”
I knew he was right, but I also knew Happy. I knew there was no way she was going to cooperate like Jack did, and I wasn’t about to do battle with an eight- legged cat with 14 needle-like claws in each paw.

Jack was allergic to fleas, and his beautiful thick long fur was the perfect haven for them. Happy was not allergic to fleas. We would have never known she had fleas if we hadn’t seen Jack scratching incessantly. The fleas hitched a ride into the house on Happy, then many hopped onto Jack where they took up permanent residence, making him totally miserable. I had just finished bathing Jack in the sink in our laundry room at the back of our house.

Ungloved, I gently picked him up and placed him in the warm water.

“Meow,” he complained gently as I poured water over his back and cupped it around his neck.

“Meow, “ he complained again as I hurriedly doused him with flea shampoo, not knowing how long he would patiently endure this assault on his personal dignity. I massaged the shampoo into the more tender belly region, the place those nasty fleas feasted on his sweet blood.

“Meeeooow, “ he stiffened and began to protest , not more loudly, but certainly pleading. I felt horrible. This was the cat who took whatever anyone handed him -- the gentle, faithful cat who more than once allowed little children to crawl on him without a hiss, scratch or yowl, and without even walking away from them, but who always waited for me to rescue him.

Now, here I was, his trusted friend, pouring water over him, and stinky shampoo, too. And he just sat in the tub allowing me to do it. I hurried to rinse the suds from his thick fur. I reached for the towel that was draped across my shoulders and wrapped him snugly in it to absorb the wet and his protest. He relaxed in my arms while I cooed sweet reassurances of my undying affection for so sweet a kitty.

That was when Bob appeared and suggested it was Happy’s turn. She sat licking her paw and occasionally running it across her face, amused by what she seemed to sense Jack had just endured. I know she felt invincible. This is the cat who made it very clear from the very beginning that she was in charge. She ignored our banter over her fate. No one in their right mind would give her a bath. And, until now, she never had reason to question our sanity.

Bob insisted. “Pam, she has to have a bath.” I knew he was right, but the visions of what was about to take place were not pleasant.

“Ok,” I relented. “But not in the laundry room. You’re going to have to help, and there’s not enough room back there. We’ll have to do her in the kitchen sink. You will have to hold her, and I’ll wash her. You better go find some leather gloves. You’re gonna need ‘em.”

The Unsuspecting Cat continued to preen while Bob rounded up some gloves. I finished towel-drying the Sweet Cat and turned him loose to finish the job. I rounded up another old towel and went to the kitchen to prepare for The Ordeal. I filled the left side of the sink with warm water, and placed the open flea shampoo in an easy reach. I took a deep breath, and casually strolled into the family room toward Happy, who was still grooming herself. She was probably chuckling to herself about how funny Jack looked and how she wouldn’t be caught dead looking like that. I know she thought those kind of things. It’s who she was.

I scooped her up, spoke a few reassuring words in her ear, and quickly headed back to the kitchen. Bob was poised at the sink, donned in long leather work gloves. Happy was squirming. She wasn’t one who relished being picked up when it wasn’t her idea, and all of a sudden she seemed to be catching the same vision I had had only moments before. And it wasn’t a pleasant one.

This was no time for hesitation or for the faint of heart. With one courageous plunge, Happy was in the sink, in the water. Bob clasped his hands firmly around her neck and tried to hold her still. The eight legs were wildly flailing, all 118 needle-sharp claws extended six inches toward anything they could grasp. An impassioned hiss-growl escaped from deep in her throat. I poured water over her from a cup and quickly grabbed the shampoo. This five pound claw-embedded ball of wet fur was pushing back with the strength of Sampson. She was half way out of the sink onto the counter and Bob bodily laid across her while I tried to lather her up. She was gaining on us. I snatched another cup of water and began to rinse what was left of her in the sink, her hindquarters. Yowls, hisses and all manner of hithertofore unknown cat-noises filled the air. Water everywhere, Bob and I were soaked, the kitchen counter, the floor, the window. More water poured over the wrathful cat, and Bob warned me she was winning the match.

We agreed: on the count of three, we would turn her loose.

“One……two…….three!

We let go, hopped back in unison, arms raised outstretched. Happy flew off the counter drenched and dripping. Yes, flew. Cats can fly. I saw it with my own eyes. She landed and ran from the kitchen into the family room. We let her have her space for a bit, then I approached cautiously with the towel to help her regain her dignity. She let me.

Sometime later, she walked into the kitchen where Bob was standing. She sidled up to him slowly, until near his feet. Then hissing, she took a serious swipe at his ankles with her claw infested paws, and ran away. For several days she repeated this remonstration, be sure he knew just how she felt about what he had done to her. Somehow, I escaped her wrath.