Ever since the first week we adopted her, Fred’s appointed herself my guardian in the upstairs bathroom. None of the other cats were doing it, she seemed to notice, and since I obviously couldn’t be trusted to myself in that room of death and torture, she’s made sure to keep a cautious eye out.
She’s particularly concerned whenever I take a shower. I’ll twist the appropriate knobs to start the water running, and she’ll extend her neck and take on a certain expression of worry once she sees the shower head start to spray. Sometimes she’ll run to the edge of the tub to make sure for me there’s nothing lurking inside. Like a shark, perhaps, or a less solicitous, alien feline from another household ready to claw my naive and unsuspecting shins.
Once I’m in the shower and the sliding door’s shut behind me, she’ll sit on the sink and fret. If I peek above the enclosure, she’ll range her head up and meow at me in her high-pitched voice, cross-eyed and agitated. The longer I stay—god forbid I should condition my hair—the more shrill she’ll get, until finally she’s calling out to me repeatedly over the water, insisting I get out.
When I do, she complains, loudly wondering over and over again why I’d subject myself to the nasty water. Usually she howls so loudly and with such distress that the Mont can hear it on the floor below. When I’m done, she’ll immediately run over to the tub again, braving the soap-scented wisps of steam billowing out so she can give the shower another once-over. Once her duty’s taken care of, she’ll cast me sympathetic glances while I towel off, then move on to other timely matters. Like monitoring the squirrel population on the back deck.
Now, Fred never, ever repeats this behavior when the Mont showers. I think she recognizes his competence; there’s apparently no question that he can withstand a good dunking. It’s only me that she frets over. Obviously it’s because she feels I’m too feeble and dim-witted to cope with threats to life and limb like water, and shampoo.
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