Cat Tales 21
The cat smells bad. She no longer has the sweet, soft, fresh smell of well-groome d kitty fur. Now she smells like ammonia, or, in layman’s terms, pee. “Are you cleaning the litter box?” I ask my husband. “Daily?"
"Why am I always the one who gets blamed?” he asks. “Why am I responsible for the cat smelling like pee?"
"Maybe she’s sick,” I say. “Let’s keep an eye on her.” Worried, I hop on line and enter my que ry:
CATS SMELL URINE
Five million sites on how to re move the smell of cat urine from carpe ts, furniture, suitcases, and clothing fill the screen.
I try again:
CATS SMELL FUR AMMONIA
CATS STINK URINE DISEASE
CATS SMELLY PEE DISEASE
Nothing, although I now know fifty differe nt ways to remove urine stains from cashmere. I give itone last try:
CATS ICKY YUCK SMELL PROBABLY CAUSED BY HUSBANDS NON-SANITARY METHODS FOR FECES AND URINE CLUMP DISPOSAL
Bingo! A site for Feline Lower Urina ry Tract Disease (FLUTD) appea rs. FLUTD, I read, takes on many different forms and stages. The most serious is when tiny crystals appear in a cat’s urine. Death is possible. I race downstairs. My husband is watching TV. “Have you seen any signs of crystals?” I shriek. “Huh?” he says. “ Fluted! Fatal cat disease! Crystals in the urine! Have you seen any?”
I race back upstairs, not giving him a chance to answer. The Web site indicates cats with urinary tract infections need to drink a lot of water, adding that with their inquisitive nature, cats are more likely to dri nk 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. Later he appears again, clenching a dripping sock in one hand. “Did you know there’s a pan of water at the top of the stairs?"
"Yes,” I say.
“There are also bowls of water unde r the dining room table, in the laundry room, on top of the dresser in the guest bedroom, and unde r 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, no. You mean she’s . . . she’s . . . "
"Relax, the cat is fine,” I say, waving away his concern. “We’re the ones in trouble.” I pause, wonderi ng how to break the ne ws, and decide the direct route is best. “We have to wipe her butt. Daily.” He blinks . Opens his mouth to say something. Thinks bette r 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—"
"Lalalalala,” says my husband, s ticking fingers in both ears. “I can’t hear you. Lalalalala . .
.” I give him a look that suggests he find a different means to express himself.
He removes his fingers. “Look here,” he says. “You told me cats were easy. You promised all we had to do was feed and water and occasionally pet them. And now 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 its 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 he r for twe nty minutes. When she is relaxed and purri ng, I motion for my husband, hiding low at the top of the stairs with a wet towel, to approach. “Is the towel the right te mpe rature?” I whisper. He glares at me.
“Right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s fine.” Gingerly, as if afraid she is 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, says the cat. “I think she likes it,” I encourage him.
“That thought te rrifies me,” says my husband, prying ope n folds of fat to clean between the m. 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. 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, gross! I’m not putting kitty poo in the washing machine.”
I look at him. “Please remind me to neve r bear you children,” I say. I make an already bad situation worse by telling my mo m about our ne wly acquired need for feline butt wiping. She is full of suggestions. “Maybe you need a bigger litter box. Maybe she just can’t maneuve r prope rly."
"The litter box is fine. She is just too fat."
"Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Everyone knows cats clean themselves."
"Mom, the vet said—"
"The vet! What makes him such an expert?"
"Twelve years of schooling?” I say. I’ve stopped telling people we have to wipe the cat’s butt. My friends with kids laugh at me. My friends without pets think I’ m nuts. My friends with pets, especially cat owners, say nothing but look infuriatingly smug that they don’t have to do the same.
So it’s just me, the cat, and my husband, bearing out our di rty little secret. And now every Monday, along with taking out the trash and watering the plants, we have the added chore of washing a week’s worth of poo towels. Yes, it’s gross. But at least the cat smells better.