The Worst Thing I've Seen A Cat Do
I've had my property peed, shat, and puked upon, clawed, shredded, chewed, eaten, smashed, spilled, stolen, and otherwise destroyed by cats. The first two kittens Chris and I ever had together, left alone in my tiny apartment for less than thirty minutes, created such a jaw-dropping mess of dry lentils, split peas, sugar, oil, various spices, and coffee-grounds-laced garbage that we were compelled to photograph it before cleaning it up. (I still have those pictures somewhere.) I've had to refinish floors and scrub baseboards down with toothbrushes. In other words, I've seen pretty much every facet of feline destruction and disgustingness. Tonight, though, I am here to tell you about the single most horrible thing I ever knew a cat to do.
Colm (see icon) had been one of those two little bitty kittens who made that amazing mess. Thirteen years later, he was an elder statesman of the house. He'd always had a tendency toward crankiness. As a youth, he could be a savage biter. I don't always discourage this as strictly as one should, and I probably still bear his scars somewhere. In his advancing age, though, he lost his taste for human flesh and began developing subtler ways to torture us. Not just the usual breakage and such, but imaginative ways. Witness:
I had fixed a meal of oven-roasted chicken parts (bone-in, skin-on, lots of fat -- this is important) and vegetables on a big, foil-lined sheet pan. The food was drained on paper towels, the dinner was consumed, and I somewhat negligently left the sheet pan (covered in at least a quarter-inch of liquid chicken fat) sitting out on the stovetop to deal with later. It crossed my mind that somebody might lap at the chicken fat, but the cats didn't usually get on the stove, and surely no one would do any worse than that.
Imagine my horror when I came back into the kitchen perhaps thirty minutes later and found Colm lying on his side in the congealing but still warm pan of chicken fat, looking absolutely blissful. He loved any warm surface -- a heating pad, a spot of sun -- but never in a thousand years had I imagined that he would do such a thing as this. His fur had soaked up the chicken fat and his entire left side was absolutely sopping with it. I called for Chris to verify that I was actually seeing this hideous vision, and he came and looked and shook his head in disbelief that mirrored my own. As for cleaning up, all I could think to do was scoop Colm up in a big towel -- he didn't want to go; he liked his nice warm fat-bath -- take him in the bathroom, get in the tub with him, sprinkle him down with baby powder, and comb it out of his fur. The first few applications just made a horrible paste I had to kind of scrape off him. Eventually it soaked up enough of the grease that I could wipe him down without him dripping everywhere, then give him a quick bath with a shower attachment and baby shampoo, which he didn't like either. Even after that, he felt faintly greasy for days, and the other cats kept wanting to lick him.
And that, my friends, is the worst thing I've ever seen a cat do ... so far.
(R.I.P. Colm, 1990-2007)
Colm (see icon) had been one of those two little bitty kittens who made that amazing mess. Thirteen years later, he was an elder statesman of the house. He'd always had a tendency toward crankiness. As a youth, he could be a savage biter. I don't always discourage this as strictly as one should, and I probably still bear his scars somewhere. In his advancing age, though, he lost his taste for human flesh and began developing subtler ways to torture us. Not just the usual breakage and such, but imaginative ways. Witness:
I had fixed a meal of oven-roasted chicken parts (bone-in, skin-on, lots of fat -- this is important) and vegetables on a big, foil-lined sheet pan. The food was drained on paper towels, the dinner was consumed, and I somewhat negligently left the sheet pan (covered in at least a quarter-inch of liquid chicken fat) sitting out on the stovetop to deal with later. It crossed my mind that somebody might lap at the chicken fat, but the cats didn't usually get on the stove, and surely no one would do any worse than that.
Imagine my horror when I came back into the kitchen perhaps thirty minutes later and found Colm lying on his side in the congealing but still warm pan of chicken fat, looking absolutely blissful. He loved any warm surface -- a heating pad, a spot of sun -- but never in a thousand years had I imagined that he would do such a thing as this. His fur had soaked up the chicken fat and his entire left side was absolutely sopping with it. I called for Chris to verify that I was actually seeing this hideous vision, and he came and looked and shook his head in disbelief that mirrored my own. As for cleaning up, all I could think to do was scoop Colm up in a big towel -- he didn't want to go; he liked his nice warm fat-bath -- take him in the bathroom, get in the tub with him, sprinkle him down with baby powder, and comb it out of his fur. The first few applications just made a horrible paste I had to kind of scrape off him. Eventually it soaked up enough of the grease that I could wipe him down without him dripping everywhere, then give him a quick bath with a shower attachment and baby shampoo, which he didn't like either. Even after that, he felt faintly greasy for days, and the other cats kept wanting to lick him.
And that, my friends, is the worst thing I've ever seen a cat do ... so far.
(R.I.P. Colm, 1990-2007)
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