Bathing the beastly beauty

NOOOOO!! In my infinite stupidity, I totally forgot about "Lost" last night. Stupid, excitingly fun baseball game (Johnny Damon is my new favorite baseball player...such pretty hair)! Any chance someone taped it and would let me borrow said tape?

Chris and I gave Carlo a bath last night. Chris was worried that bathing him so soon after bringing him home would traumatize him, but so far, he's shown no signs of being upset by the changes in his situation. The night I brought him home, he hopped right out of his carrier, ready to explore and dominate. Also, unlike Vinny, I think he was never feral, because he's easy to handle and puts up with a lot of manual manipulation. I'm trying to accustom him to the idea of me sticking my fingers in his mouth (to brush his teeth) and he couldn't care less. So we bathed him—and lo, no crying or wailing or gnashing of teeth (I almost typed "rending of garments," but hee…he's naked). Easy peasy. He even let me towel him off.

The reason we were so eager to get him washed was because his fur was all nappy and I'm sure he was covered in SPCA funk. He didn't need to be locked in the bathroom overnight anymore, but I also didn't want him crawling in bed with us while all funky. And I'm kind of regretting the bath now, because he did, in fact, crawl in bed with us. And proceeded to hog all the pillows; toss and turn violently; make biscuits on our ears, necks, scalps, and faces; and flop sidelong ON TOP of our faces. Have you ever tried to fall asleep with a cat's paw up your nose? Or wake up with a stiff neck to find your cat stretched out languorously on your pillow while you clutch at the one tiny corner of pillow that you still have custody of? Oh, and to all you cat owners out there, I’m sorry that my cat stole all their purrs. That's the only feasible explanation for his non-stop, diesel engine-like rumbling.

Chris started work this week and on day two, was given his new leash…the dreaded Blackberry. I think it's just a matter of time before I start getting jealous of the little e-mail device, casting dirty looks at it, fantasizing about throwing it out the car window while bombing up Pine Street. Instead of inspecting his shirts for lipstick stains, I'll start snooping for telltale button impressions on Chris's thumbs, asking him suspiciously why the "business" lunch with the Blackberry took so long. And then, of course, the Blackberry will stop passing along my messages, causing in irreparable rift in our relationship, and I'll be left only with the hope that this little Blackberry bitch will one day feel my pain when Chris throws her over for a younger, slimmer model. Or maybe it's just a matter of time before the nice men bring me the pretty white jacket with the funny sleeves.