Bath-time for Ashley

Ashley’s fur had become so matted over the two-year period of my healing process, when I lost the ability to perform the simplest of tasks, such as taking care of her basic grooming needs.

Through my kitchen window during the day, I would watch her on her favorite perch, tear out chunks of her hair, dropping the excess on the ground.

Soon, the floor of the cat enclosure became carpeted with her hair, as if a giant spider had landed and woven a giant web in an attempt to capture an alien being. Daily sweeping became fruitless. The next day, more hair would appear in its place. This spectacle was quite concerning, motivating me to push harder in physical therapy both at home and in the clinic. I needed my right hand back.

Finally, on June 22nd, after months of Ashley successfully eluding me, I was able to pick her up, place her inside of her carrier and bring her into the house.

That fateful morning, I had a feeling that my efforts to help her would pay off. Previously that day, I prepared the bathroom for her arrival: everything off the floor, countertops, top of the toilet lid, rugs removed, even the shower curtain flung up out of the way of her sharp claws; piles of fresh towels in the corner, square bucket waiting in the shower stall; grooming tools, including a new set of cat clippers at the ready.

My question to myself as I closed the bathroom door behind us: “I was ready for battle, but would my right hand cooperate?” The deeper question: “Would Ashley?”

The answer came suddenly wafting through the air. She was crouched in her carrier. I could smell the unmistakable odor of what I learned over time to call her ”PTSD poop.”

I’m unsure what brings this on every time I try to groom her or brush her or, God forbid, remove her mats. More than likely it’s a combination of her tumultuous introduction into a fiery world where she lost not only her mom, but also most of her siblings.

Her attempts to find mom’s milk bar led to her and her brother to ingesting large amounts of dirt, toxic ashes, small bits of gravel, and culminated in a 45-day stay at the vet’s in order to save the two survivors.

Taking a calming breath (wishing I had on a rubber apron), I picked her up and set to work with the shaver. I’d hoped that instead of using the brushes, combs, or the seam ripper, this might stop her rancid flow of poop. I was mistaken.

Three hours later, after multiple rest periods, her hair was now inside the trash bin. Poop was everywhere-even on the walls. The floor was slippery. The bathroom fans were running full force, all in vain. Welcome to her PTSD world.

She was back inside her top-loading carrier. This was her safe-spot where she was retreating to every time she jumped away from me down to the floor. She was growling, spitting, swearing at me, daring me to try to pick her up one more time.

Lukewarm water now filled half the bucket. I squirted some Dawn into the mix.  Picking her up carefully, avoiding her extended claws. I dunked her rear into the water. Her claws now clung tightly to the lip. Grateful that they weren’t in me, I set to work.

Four butt-baths later, I went to lift her slippery body one final time. She wouldn’t give with her claws. Carefully, I slid my right hand down by her back, cupped her rear to lift her out.

Without warning, she tensed up. She bent her back legs, digging them into my right palm, launching herself into the air and back into her carrier. I pulled my hand out of the soiled water and looked at it.  The gashes were deep. Trying to ignore the pain, I turned my attention to her, to finish the job.

An hour later, she was dry and back with her friends, while I was on my way to Urgent Care. The doctor smiled when he walked into the room. I am well-known there.

“Another cat bite?” he inquired.

“No, not this time,” I answered as I unwrapped my hand, showing him the damage. I thanked God that my tetanus shot was up-to-date. Occupational hazard. This time it only took five stitches to close the wound.

I thoroughly expected the next morning for her to completely avoid me. To my surprise, she came running up to me and head-bumped my ankles! I believe she was telling me in her way:

“Thanks, Mom, for loving me despite all my flaws.”

I bent down to gently pet her, relieved that all her mats were now gone. I could sweep the floor one final time and life could then return to normal - as if anything in my life is truly normal.