The Fire Marshall almost busted up in our bathroom today due to a wall to wall expanse of feline pultritude far in excess of the occupancy limit of our five square foot bathroom.
See, it's a normal occurrance for Egan and Fiona to appear in the bathroom every morning. Well, actually it started with Cracker, our OBA, or Original Bathroom Attendant. Whenever any of us would use the bathroom for any reason, Cracker would come from wherever he was in the house and attend us, which mostly included sitting there staring at us, but we had a running joke that Cracker was there to present you with warm towels, make sure the toilet paper roll was new and facing the right way, and to offer you a mint with his tip tray.
Like all things, though, it didn't last. He got tired of his attendant duties around the time that Egan came into his own. Egan is the main go-to guy for any sort of bathroom activities now. Showering? He'll be there, patiently sitting on the vanity, or meatloafed on the toilet seat waiting for some lovins. Either that or he's yowling for you to turn the faucet on just enough that the flow is a tiny one, so he can daintily and sloppily drink his fill. Bathing? He's actually tried to join the wife during a tub soak, which elicited a howl of horror not from him but from her. Egan's only concern? That he couldn't rescue his mom from drowning.
It seems that Egan believes that we're in some sort of danger, you see. If you make the mistake of reaching out of the shower for anything at all you're running the risk of getting a very long, very sharp claw hooked in whatever exposed part of you that you foolishly showed, and he will then proceed to throw the might of his 8 or so pounds into dragging you out of the shower.
Quite a surprise when all you wanted was to reach the shaving gel.
And then along came Fiona Applesauce, who is young enough to be very impressionable. Watching Egan, who is next-to-youngest in the family, she has decided that The Place To Be is the bathroom. Her role, however, is to sit in the direct flow from the heater vent and go into a heat coma as fast as possible.
So naturally, the patterns being established, this morning things had to take a sinister turn. A flood of cat fur arrived, you see. Not just the regular two, but Cracker the OBA and Delilah, who is rarely if ever spotted in the vicinity of tubs, showers, or other large standing puddles of water. This morning it was physically impossible to step anywhere without encountering a furry tail, head, or some other feline bit. The only way to make it around the area this morning was to drag my feet along the floor, scooting animals out of the way as I shuffled like a overweight grandma making her way through Wal-Mart's meat aisle.
Sometimes, like on cold nights, it's nice to have a bed covered in warm, feline fur. When you get out of the shower, however, it's like trying to slip on a pair of very wooly socks. Don't try it. It'll only end in tears. And yowls.