Washing the cat

Tagged #gambus

2025-06-04

Gambus had just turned 1 and she stank more than ever. She reeked. Ponged. The air fetorised the second she walked through the door, as if the room itself was wincing at her arrival. We had begun to take notice and were quick to announce our displeasure, gagging and groaning whenever she approached. I think she felt the dawning realisation that her once well-loved and favourable reputation was quickly decomposing beneath the foul stench of artificially scented lavender litter, blended with her noisome offerings and clinging to the grease that had coated her fur.

So I washed the cat. It was overdue. I placed her down in the bathtub, prepared for her to flee, but instead she bore it in silence. I thought I saw a brief flicker of knowing shame in her eyes. The proceedure was simpler than the previous night’s research had led me to believe. Due, I think, in part, to her more or less resigning herself entirely to the situation. With the two biggest saucepans from the kitchen filled with lukewarm water beside me, I scooped it over her back with a large Pyrex jug, then again, and again until her fur was left sodden by the streams.

The cat shampoo smelled distinctly of hospital sanitiser - clinical, sharp, and no-nonesense - yet was tempered slightly by the soft, almost sweet scent of baby products, the kind of fragrence they include just to reassure you it won’t cause any harm. Save for a timid clamber up the side of the tub, she sat still as I massaged the mixture into her once-fluffy fur, now wilted and clinging damply to her sides. I smirked at the slender, awkward frame that had revealed itself beneath. She didn’t seem impressed.

Once suitably lathered, I rinsed the shampoo from her fur with the remaining water beside me. The shampoo left her coat soft, but dried out my hands, the webbing between my fingers turned red and itched. Still, it was over quickly, I thought. As I lifted her out of the bath and into an old towel, she struck my chest with a claw and let out a pleading yelp. She’d been remarkably uncomplaining, so it felt fair. The towel did little to help with the wetness, and I could tell she was eager to dash, and when an opportunity arose she took it, darting for the door and out into the living room.

With the threat of hypothermia fresh in my mind from the many sloppish articles I’d studied the night prior, I wielded a hairdryer and chase ensued. Gambus, seemingly mistaking the loud whoosh of the hairdryer for the deeper drone of the vacuum cleaner, was terrified, bouncing around the room in a frenzy of panic. It felt almost cruel to keep forcing her from her hiding places to dry the next patch of fur. I told myself it was for her safety, but the doubt didn’t quite leave my mind.

We reconciled later over a salmon and trout cat treat. Gambus eagerly tore pieces of brown, stick-like fish mixture from the packet clutched in my hand. Then, once suitably coated in saliva, tossed them onto the floor to inspect with a series of sniffs and licks before slobbering them back into her mouth and resuming her meal. I futilely tried to redirect her ritual to the kitchen tiles rather than the living room carpet. She exhaled, her fishy cat breath riding a gluttonous meow, but it was better than the previous stench of her fur, and so the operation was deemed a success.

The shampoo I used was Burt’s Bees Tearless Kitten Shampoo. It seemed to work well, but my skin was irritated. I’m not sure if the shampoo or the excessive contact with dander and litter dust was to blame. Maybe use gloves. The salmon treats were Webbox Tasty Sticks, salmon and trout flavour. Gambus liked them but I don’t think they’re her favourite.