I have a bad habit of forgetting to close the door while I’m in the tub or shower. Actually, since I live alone, it’s more of a rather foolish habit because the embarrassment factor is almost zero. Leroy, seeing the open door and thinking he is actually a human person who should be where the other people are, inevitably invites himself to join the party whenever I’m getting soapy. When I’m having a bath, he perches on the edge of the tub and purrs to beat the band; this is generally a harmless scenario unless he drools on my bathtub reading in feline joy.
Baths are one thing, but showers present another problem entirely. This morning, like so many others, I rushed through my lathering and rinsing, shut off the water, yanked back the curtain, and prepared to launch myself out of the shower and into my Monday. It was a good theory, perhaps, but there was the same serious barricade today as there is most other mornings.
There was a cat on the mat. Right there, where I needed to set my dripping feet, and the rest of me too, Leroy was all curled up, purring and drooling. My bathroom floors are ceramic tile, and they’re a little chilly early in the day; there is nothing I can say or do to the cat, save tossing the shampoo bottle at him, to convince him to vacate his warm and cosy spot in front of the tub. To add to my misfortune, Leroy fills almost the entire surface area of the bath mat, and there is no place for a pair of feet, even a pair as small as mine.
Sometimes I luck out and Leroy decides to allow me to dry my feet on the mat. I thought this morning that my week was looking up when he rose from the pink terry mat and sauntered toward the living room. I hoped against hope that Leroy leaving when he did meant I could dry off and start the day without coating my damp shins, ankles, and feet in white and peachy cat hair. My heart did a little jig of hairless jubilation.
As stood on my still-warm mat, patting my face dry, I heard a sound that sent a jolt of panic straight to my liver. The house echoed with the “bbbbrrrpttt” of a happy kitty dashing to see his favorite person. Leroy streaked toward me, the hairs flying from his furry sides even as he dashed through the bathroom door, and rubbed himself firmly against my left calf. A large amount of him stayed behind on my wet skin, of course. If I had the vertical jump of an Olympic volleyball champion, I still could not have avoided his attack.
My friends, I cannot win. At least not until I remember to shut that bathroom door.
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