NCIS: Cat Murder

  When my daughter set off to preschool at the beginning of this year, I was forced to fill out an obscene amount of paperwork. A complete biography of our family, our educational values, our disciplinary measures, and our religious background, including the question, "Who is the authority in your household?"

   I wrote, "The cat."

   (Our favorite preschool teacher later informed me that other members of staff nearly spit their coffee across the classroom upon reading it.)

   But it's really true. Bertie and Jeeves are pleased to have us around as staff, but we know exactly where we fall in the hierarchy. The cats come first, then the Daddy, the Princess, the Patient Boy, and that Person Who Does All the Other Work and is Constantly Stepping On Us.

   In fact, when the Amazing Daddy leaves for work, the cats sit upon the mat and cry for about 15 minutes. Mind you, I'm still in the house, and willing to cuddle and stroke and talk, but I am not to be spoken to unless it is 2 am and I am the Insomniac on the Couch - in which case, it is their pleasure to give me something to do (i.e., pet them). 

   This is no exaggeration. This happened TODAY :

     *blast. I am  bad at the Interwebs and Techonology and I really am trying to post a video here, but it is angry with me. I'll try again in the morning. Seriously. It's after midnight. Nothing good ever happened on a computer after midnight.*


  Bertie is the Loud One. Jeeves, our black kitty vampire, is less loquacious and more circumspect. 

  Lately, Jeeves has been unable to keep up with the absolutely enormous amount of fur he possesses. Our hardwood floors have Jeeves-puffs blowing by on a regular basis, like tumbleweeds on the open prairie. Husband tried to brush him, but the overwhelming volume was just beyond them both - and poor Jeeves was starting to suffer from constant hairballs and tangles and matting and general hygienic misery.

   Something had to be done. Something drastic.


   Tonight, we sheared him. We hauled out the hair trimmers and used that #2 guard and lopped off an entire Jeeves worth of fur. He wasn't happy, but he submitted, as though sensing the weight that was being literally lifted from his shoulders.

   Then we washed him,which was NOT okay, and then we rinsed him, which means I will spend all of tomorrow de-Jeeves-ing the bathroom. Then we rubbed him until our towels were despaired of.

  Then we brushed him again for twenty minutes.

  And we STILL brushed off this much:

  I think Jeeves may have a super power - SHEDDING.
  


 But the BEST moment, the moment that made everything worth it, was the moment that Bertie wandered into the bathroom and saw the aftermath of the shearing:

   

  And he stopped dead - like a really terrible, over-acting guest star on NCIS: Pet Edition. He jumped back and stared in horror at the fur on the floor. He might as well have fallen to his furry knees and screamed, "NOOOOOO!"
     

   Then he spent two hours hissing at his brother, as though a Clean Jeeves was a Traitor Jeeves. Clean Jeeves was an impostor, or an alien! 


   Clean Jeeves, however, doesn't mind being hissed at, because I believe he feels immensely better. And after all that, he's not even close to being bald or hairless - just look at him!
   
   

He is not close to forgiveness either.