The Great Houdini's First Water Trick
For those of you who think this might be about something other than a curious black kitten, you might as well be disappointed now, and stop reading.
For the rest of you...The Great Houdini is (as of tomorrow) seven months old, and able to say "ma-ma," though I regret this only happens on mornings when I do not get out of bed soon enough to feed him. Others have requested he do this interesting parlour trick on cue, but try as I have, he just sits and stares with his head cocked to the side as if to say, "Silly human. I only use my powers for evil..."
I admit, it sounds more like "Mrow-ma," but a mother's love goes beyond speech impediments in felines.
Houdini has a fondness (or finickiness) for drinking water out of the bathroom sink. He prefers it to his water dish so much so, that whenever a person goes into the bathroom to do his or her business, Houdini likes to follow. And watch. And then hops up on the sink afterwards, when you go to wash your hands, and drinks.
There comes a time, though, in every cat caretaker's life, when the curiosity about water becomes a fear factor for us, however. I can explain.
In our daily routine, my alarm goes off, Houdini rests on my chest and allows me to push snooze twice, but never three times. If I push snooze a third time, he goes and stands on the answering machine--directly on the button that very loudly says, "YOU HAVE...[insert number here] NEW MESSAGES..." On those ornery mornings when you would sooner throw things at him, turn it off, and roll back over rather than actually get up, he does it again. And again. If you still refuse to rouse yourself to the kitchen for his kibble, he begins taking it out on the old man, Lestat.
Recently, he's just resorted to whiskering up to my ear, real close-like, and saying "Mrow-ma...Mrow-ma!" It's too delightful not to giggle. It's too wonderful not to get up. It's too perfect not to pet and coo and think to yourself, "My gods, I have the smartest cat in the world." It's all in vain, though. It's only exciting because you think you were clever enough to teach a clever cat a clever thing.
After feeding the two of them (yes, Lestat is decidedly absent from this story--he likes to just stay out of the kitten's way), Houdini takes his morning constitution, and then follows me about as I gather my clothes for the day and head to the shower.
For those of you familiar with Victorian living, it's rather confining. Small rooms, external electrical that isn't grounded, cranky plumbing, no modern appliances (not even a microwave or garbage disposal), and a myriad of ghosts contribute to the 1909 charm of this particular apartment building. The hardwood floors, high ceilings, history, and fashionable address make up for these inconveniences.
I used to count the large, long, claw-foot tub as one of them, until the Berkeley Paranormal Society found an unhealthy level of EMF readings coming from the floor of my bathroom during their investigation of my apartment. The EMFs are conducted through the bathwater via the iron claw-foot tub. It makes some people feel ill at ease, but honestly...I chalk that up more to the fact that the bathroom itself is extremely long and narrow, but for the indent into the wall where the tub is. It's not my apartment's best feature.
There is no tile on the walls. A double shower curtain situation is needed to keep the water off the walls and off the rest of the bathroom. Up until this point, Houdini has not been curious about how this works. He watches you get in and watches you get out. He hasn't poked his head in.
Lately, he has discovered that the faucet drips, and I have often seen him romping around the apartment with a soaked head from licking the drops from the tub near the drain, as the drops from the faucet are falling on his head.
The Great Houdini is a kitten without fear. He leaps first, and thinks later. He never hesitates to enter an unfamiliar environment, and if he figures he likes you--he never hesitates to find you on the sofa, leap and bound right up and onto your breast, and plop down. He's confidant. Knows what he wants and goes after it.
I always knew there would come a day when he'd decide to explore the tub. Each time I shower, the sense of foreboding washes over me for a moment... What if today is the day? What if he just leaps right in? What if I am shredded to a bloody pulp? What if I'm out of Hydrogen Peroxide?
This morning was not one of those days; I forgot about my fear.
I went about our routine, and in my sleepiness went about my showering. I was putting the conditioner in my hair when I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched. Not in that way my ghosts can make you feel...but in that way that something was about to happen. Something very, very bad.
I turned around to rinse, and there was the Great Houdini, teetering on the edge of the tub, in between the cloth shower curtain and the clear plastic one...just staring at all the luxurious water sprinkling the other side of it as if each drop were a tiny bird to be chased, bedazzling, bewitching, and beyond exciting. And then he was staring at me.
"No...don't do it, Houdi. Don't do it!" I said. He gave me that nonchalant, "I'm just looking..." sort of look, and walked the length of the tub on the edge several times, pacing. He pawed the iron wall beneath him, testing it.
"No! Hoo-dee-nee...HOO-DEE-NEE! Don't do it!" An innocent sniff of the steamy air above, and back to pacing he went. I rinsed the conditioner out quickly, praying. When I opened my eyes I saw him on the opposite end of the tub, outside the protection of the plastic, balancing, teetering, wanting...getting ready...
"Noooooooooooooooooooo, HOUDI!" Back up again to innocent minding-my-own-ca-ness pose, and back in between the plastic curtain and cloth once again.
Then, quite suddenly, he just leapt out. As if he became disinterested, or decided it was too much a risk--all that water. The potential frolicking. The promised land of glittering warmth.
This relief in me was short lived. Half done, washing my feet, holding onto the wall with one hand and soap in the other...a little black head popped up on the inside curtain again. This time, he reached down...down...down. Just enough to poke his nose out from under the safety of the plastic to sniff the steam. My foot above him, I couldn't move, but again, pleaded, "Houdini, trust me...you are NOT going to like this."
He stared up at me with the kind of retort-full annoyance only a teenager could mimic well, and got back out. Feet done, I decided not to tempt fate (and my unscarred flesh), and turned the water off. He only eyed me suspiciously, as if to say, "I could have. I would have...I WILL one day."
But not today.
*sigh*
For the rest of you...The Great Houdini is (as of tomorrow) seven months old, and able to say "ma-ma," though I regret this only happens on mornings when I do not get out of bed soon enough to feed him. Others have requested he do this interesting parlour trick on cue, but try as I have, he just sits and stares with his head cocked to the side as if to say, "Silly human. I only use my powers for evil..."
I admit, it sounds more like "Mrow-ma," but a mother's love goes beyond speech impediments in felines.
Houdini has a fondness (or finickiness) for drinking water out of the bathroom sink. He prefers it to his water dish so much so, that whenever a person goes into the bathroom to do his or her business, Houdini likes to follow. And watch. And then hops up on the sink afterwards, when you go to wash your hands, and drinks.
There comes a time, though, in every cat caretaker's life, when the curiosity about water becomes a fear factor for us, however. I can explain.
In our daily routine, my alarm goes off, Houdini rests on my chest and allows me to push snooze twice, but never three times. If I push snooze a third time, he goes and stands on the answering machine--directly on the button that very loudly says, "YOU HAVE...[insert number here] NEW MESSAGES..." On those ornery mornings when you would sooner throw things at him, turn it off, and roll back over rather than actually get up, he does it again. And again. If you still refuse to rouse yourself to the kitchen for his kibble, he begins taking it out on the old man, Lestat.
Recently, he's just resorted to whiskering up to my ear, real close-like, and saying "Mrow-ma...Mrow-ma!" It's too delightful not to giggle. It's too wonderful not to get up. It's too perfect not to pet and coo and think to yourself, "My gods, I have the smartest cat in the world." It's all in vain, though. It's only exciting because you think you were clever enough to teach a clever cat a clever thing.
After feeding the two of them (yes, Lestat is decidedly absent from this story--he likes to just stay out of the kitten's way), Houdini takes his morning constitution, and then follows me about as I gather my clothes for the day and head to the shower.
For those of you familiar with Victorian living, it's rather confining. Small rooms, external electrical that isn't grounded, cranky plumbing, no modern appliances (not even a microwave or garbage disposal), and a myriad of ghosts contribute to the 1909 charm of this particular apartment building. The hardwood floors, high ceilings, history, and fashionable address make up for these inconveniences.
I used to count the large, long, claw-foot tub as one of them, until the Berkeley Paranormal Society found an unhealthy level of EMF readings coming from the floor of my bathroom during their investigation of my apartment. The EMFs are conducted through the bathwater via the iron claw-foot tub. It makes some people feel ill at ease, but honestly...I chalk that up more to the fact that the bathroom itself is extremely long and narrow, but for the indent into the wall where the tub is. It's not my apartment's best feature.
There is no tile on the walls. A double shower curtain situation is needed to keep the water off the walls and off the rest of the bathroom. Up until this point, Houdini has not been curious about how this works. He watches you get in and watches you get out. He hasn't poked his head in.
Lately, he has discovered that the faucet drips, and I have often seen him romping around the apartment with a soaked head from licking the drops from the tub near the drain, as the drops from the faucet are falling on his head.
The Great Houdini is a kitten without fear. He leaps first, and thinks later. He never hesitates to enter an unfamiliar environment, and if he figures he likes you--he never hesitates to find you on the sofa, leap and bound right up and onto your breast, and plop down. He's confidant. Knows what he wants and goes after it.
I always knew there would come a day when he'd decide to explore the tub. Each time I shower, the sense of foreboding washes over me for a moment... What if today is the day? What if he just leaps right in? What if I am shredded to a bloody pulp? What if I'm out of Hydrogen Peroxide?
This morning was not one of those days; I forgot about my fear.
I went about our routine, and in my sleepiness went about my showering. I was putting the conditioner in my hair when I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched. Not in that way my ghosts can make you feel...but in that way that something was about to happen. Something very, very bad.
I turned around to rinse, and there was the Great Houdini, teetering on the edge of the tub, in between the cloth shower curtain and the clear plastic one...just staring at all the luxurious water sprinkling the other side of it as if each drop were a tiny bird to be chased, bedazzling, bewitching, and beyond exciting. And then he was staring at me.
"No...don't do it, Houdi. Don't do it!" I said. He gave me that nonchalant, "I'm just looking..." sort of look, and walked the length of the tub on the edge several times, pacing. He pawed the iron wall beneath him, testing it.
"No! Hoo-dee-nee...HOO-DEE-NEE! Don't do it!" An innocent sniff of the steamy air above, and back to pacing he went. I rinsed the conditioner out quickly, praying. When I opened my eyes I saw him on the opposite end of the tub, outside the protection of the plastic, balancing, teetering, wanting...getting ready...
"Noooooooooooooooooooo, HOUDI!" Back up again to innocent minding-my-own-ca-ness pose, and back in between the plastic curtain and cloth once again.
Then, quite suddenly, he just leapt out. As if he became disinterested, or decided it was too much a risk--all that water. The potential frolicking. The promised land of glittering warmth.
This relief in me was short lived. Half done, washing my feet, holding onto the wall with one hand and soap in the other...a little black head popped up on the inside curtain again. This time, he reached down...down...down. Just enough to poke his nose out from under the safety of the plastic to sniff the steam. My foot above him, I couldn't move, but again, pleaded, "Houdini, trust me...you are NOT going to like this."
He stared up at me with the kind of retort-full annoyance only a teenager could mimic well, and got back out. Feet done, I decided not to tempt fate (and my unscarred flesh), and turned the water off. He only eyed me suspiciously, as if to say, "I could have. I would have...I WILL one day."
But not today.
*sigh*