My kitten, Sylvester (okay, he’s well over a year old, but since he fit in the palm of my hand when I got him, he is now, and will always be, my “kitten”) has a pathological fixation on water. When I am brushing my teeth, washing dishes, or especially taking a shower, Sylvester’s big, fuzzy cheeks start to vibrate with anticipation, and he heaves his fluffball body onto the counter and attempts to squeeze all 15 pounds of himself into the tiny sink, no regard to the fact that he is now completely in the way of whatever task I was trying to achieve.
This, in case you have not been introduced, is Sylvester:
I’m not sure the photo does him justice, but he is roughly the size of a small water buffalo, and loaded with enough fur for a dozen animals. Imagine a buffalo-sized hairball in your sink as you brush your teeth, or falling into the shower with you (yes, he’s done this twice, and still hasn’t learned that he lacks the grace to take a frenzied flying leap onto the ledge of the tub while a shower is in progress.)
Interestingly, this is the same cat who will react like I am inflicting Medieval torture if I even think of giving him a bath, and he will shred the flesh from my arms if I so much as try. Isn’t it the same water? It’s hilarious how hyper he gets and simply must hop into the shower as soon as I get out so he can lick the walls, pat the drain, and get his feather-duster tail soaked, but he pitches a monstrous fit about taking a bath.
Then again, Sylvester has taken quite a few knocks to his bone head, as Tweetie has never been his biggest fan and likes to demonstrate his appreciation for Sylvester’s presence by methodically whipping him across the room, off the bed, and into the ceiling fan, if he aims just right. The effect is lost, however, since Sylvester labels this abuse as “playing” and bounds back for more from Uncle Tweetie.
Sylvester is, among other things, rather “special”.