My Poor Wet Cat

The last couple days have been a little hard on the psyche.  I had to wash my cat.  (I know, ha ha, but seriously, shut up.)

I learned my lesson.  When painting, lock the cat out of the area.  No matter how good you think he's being, he will surprise you when you least expect him to by jumping up and laying on your filthy palette.

His paws and stomach were bright green.

I hauled him off to the bathroom.  I'll be honest, I was a little pissed.  I mean, seriously?!  How many times had I told him "No, stay off the table!"  How many times had I grabbed his little furry behind and physically removed him from my work space.

I am sure my urgency and the aggressive way I wet his body with water probably sent him into a panic.  I just kept scrubbing and scrubbing his legs and then between his toes because the paint just kept coming out of him.  It was like washing a tiny raged-out Hulk.

He was so freaked out.  I had him by the scruff of the neck and I may have squeezed him a bit too hard, I am not sure.  I looked into his tiny terrified face and I knew he'd scratch the living hell out of me if he could.

I remember thinking to myself, "I just need to hurry and get this over with."  He was terrified and I was holding him down in the sink so I could scrub him.  It's not easy to hold a cat down.  I remember thinking "just stay down."

That's when I saw the yellow in the sink.  I was so startled and thought, "my poor kitty is so scared to death that he's wet himself."

That is the moment when I realized I have a mental problem.  I have trouble understanding the difference between rebellion and fear in someone.  I immediately loosened my grip on his scruff and spoke in a soothing voice to him as I finished washing as gently and quickly as I could.

Then I dried him off with a towel and kept talking to him in a soothing voice to make him feel better.

He recovered.  He licked himself for several hours and I put the heater on so he wouldn't be too cold.

It broke my heart to think I'd hurt him.  I didn't mean to, I just wanted him to be still so I could clean him.  I just couldn't tell he was scared.  I thought he was just rebelling because he didn't want to be made wet.  Maybe he was actually afraid I was trying to kill him.

I wonder why I can't recognize fear.

I do have a theory, although I don't know if it's a good one.  When I was a kid, I would sometimes get in trouble for certain things.  Crying, voicing my own opinion, disobedience, to name a few.  So maybe it isn't that I can't recognize fear but I see those types of things as "bad things" because that's what I was taught.  No one explained to me that these feelings are normal or taught me how to handle them.  I think it's odd that I don't recognize fear as fear, but maybe when I am in the position of power, I am unable to see it for what it is.  That's the only thing I can think of.