Cleo

“I’m so sorry!” I said, dabbing the blood on her cheek with a paper tissue that had been doubling as a table napkin. “I’m sure she didn’t mean…”

Clutching the tissue to her cheek, Rosie glared down at her assailant.

“This kitten…your kitten…has fleas!” declared Rosie, rearranging her spectacles.

“Really?” I said, scratching an ankle. Steve and Rob had complained of being “itchy” over the past few days. I’d dismissed their complaints as neuroticism. It now dawned on me I was itchy, too. An archipelago of miniature volcanoes encircled both ankles and stretched up my legs.

“Yes, look,” she said, parting the sparse forest of Cleo’s underbelly. “Dozens, possibly even hundreds…”

The sight resembled one of those shots taken by helicopter over Manhattan. Oblivious to us staring down at them, an entire city of fleas bustled through avenues of Cleo’s hair. So engrossed were they in their flea workday, so confident that whatever they were doing was the most important job on earth right now, not one paused to glance up at a pair of horrified human giants.

“That’s a serious infestation,” said Rosie, awe verging on admiration in her voice.

“How do we get rid of them? Do I get some powder from the pet shop?”

“Too late for that,” pronounced Rosie. “What this kitten needs is a bath.”

When I pointed out cats have a natural loathing of water, and that immersing a kitten would surely be close to animal cruelty, she shrugged. “Well, if you don’t want to take responsibility for your kitten’s health…”

Rosie had me cornered. If I didn’t obey her she’d report me to some kind of committee of animal protection feminists. They’d plant burning crosses on our front lawn and glue posters around the neighborhood.

“But we don’t have a kitten bath,” I said, almost certain I’d never seen such a household item, not even in a pet shop. “Or kitten shampoo.”

“The bathroom vanity will do,” she said. “And mild human shampoo is fine. Now, find me a hand towel, please.”

The closest thing we had to a hand towel was a faded blue rag that had enjoyed a previous life as a beach towel until the boys and Rata tore it apart during a tug-of-war. With the efficiency of an Egyptian embalmer wrapping up a cat mummy, Rosie wound the cloth around Cleo’s shoulders. With her legs (and claws) tucked against her body, Cleo was defenseless. Her startled, furry face emerged from one end of the towel. The other end was wedged deep in the folds of Rosie’s T-shirt. I desperately wanted to rescue Cleo. But, immune from any more scratch attacks, Rosie had taken control.

She instructed me to fill the basin with warm water, then tested the temperature with her free elbow. When the depth and temperature were ideal, Rosie swiftly unwound the cloth and passed Cleo to me.

“I thought you were going to do this?” I said, wrestling with legs and tail, which were moving in opposite directions simultaneously.

“You’re the mother,” Rosie replied, taking a step back towards the safely of the towel rail.

Our kitten relaxed in my arms. I took it as a huge compliment. Staring down from her dry vantage point, Cleo was fascinated by the water, and expectantly watched it glistening in the basin, as if it might house a school of goldfish. I unwound, too. Maybe Cleo had inherited the famous Abyssinian love of water and was going to enjoy her bath.

Inhaling deeply, I lowered her into the water. Swift handling combined with respect for feline pride would be required. Cleo seemed to understand the procedure. She kept still as a statuette while I massaged baby shampoo into her coat. The kitten was soon wreathed in a cloak of bubbles.

I was proud of her nestled in the basin. Fortunately, Cleo couldn’t see what a bath was doing for her looks. With her fur slicked down and whiskers pasted against her cheeks, she could’ve been mistaken for a rat. Nevertheless, Rosie had to be impressed with Cleo’s understanding of hygiene requirements.

“Good girl,” I crooned.

“See? Nothing to it,” Rosie said. “Every cat needs a bath now and then.”

Cleo suddenly let out a primeval yowl. It was a shocking noise that penetrated my maternal genes as instantly and powerfully as the cry of a child lost in a supermarket. Cleo’s little head drooped sideways and, to my profound horror, she went limp as a dishcloth in my hands.

“Get her out! Get her out!” Rosie bellowed.

“I am getting her out!” I bellowed back. As I lifted the little creature from the water, her head and legs swung lifelessly. “Oh…!”

What was Rob going to say? His heart had already been shattered. He wouldn’t be able to take another blow. I’d already proved myself a failure as mother. No way should I have been given command of something as small and helpless as a kitten. I was barely capable of putting my clothes on.

Snatching the towel from Rosie, I engulfed the lifeless form.