It's not what I wanted to do Saturday. That morning, I'd played my harp at a funeral. In the afternoon, I played for a wedding. I was tired and looking forward to some lunch and a nice long nap, maybe going for a run and then taking a bath.
Then Harry escaped and decided to roll in the dusty dirt of the garden.
Remember, he's an all-white cat.
Bad, bad, bad kitty.
Very, very bad kitty.
I took Harry back outside to try to brush him off, but it only made things worse and ground all the dirt deeper into his fluffiness. I didn't want to. But I had no choice. I shut the bathroom door, filled up my beautiful white claw foot tub with warm water and dunked Harry in it. After a few dramatic escape attempts and giving me the dirtiest looks ever, he was pretty good. I lathered him up with some French-milled natural soap from Provence that he loves to lick when I forget to cover the soap dish (so I figured it would be safe for him to be bathed in it). He shook and splashed and meowed pitifully.
Have you ever seen anything so pathetic?
He was mighty embarrassed.
I spent the next 45 minutes trying to dry him off so he wouldn't get the entire house wet.
He hated it.
By the time we were done, I was hot and sweaty and covered in dust myself. I skipped the lunch and the nap and the run and just went straight for the bath myself. A long, hot, soaking bath. With French-milled soap from Provence. And a glass of wine. And a still-wet Harry hiding behind the toilet.
An hour or so later, he was back to his beautiful self.
He smelled pretty good, too.
He even hopped onto my lap to give me kisses. I think he forgives me.