Swampwater Debutante

Trilby, like all of my cats, has developed the habit of following me into the bathroom. I originally found this to be irritatingly adorable, but once Trilby started trying to hop into my underpants and use them as a hammock at 9 in the morning, it just got irritating, and I began to lock her out.

Well, again - baby Siamese/Manx. That wail is a piercing one. And when I would open the door, finally, she would either jump into my hand and wrap her paws around my arm in  some kind of desperate “NEVER AGAIN” hug, or she’d do the hug thing on my leg. Adorably heartbreaking, especially when combined with her patented Bambi stare. And so I began to allow her back into the bathroom, and she had gotten over her fascination with my underpants and the like. I thought.

Until this morning, when I was sitting yawning on the toilet with my pajama pants and underthings around my ankles - as you do - just tra la la trying to wake up and twirling my hair in my fingers.

That is when someone leapt up and sank her tiny claws into a delicate and crucial portion of my anatomy.

White starry flashes of agony lit behind my eyes as I shrieked in pain and fury. Blindly, I reached down and detached Trilby from her inappropriate grasping place (like an oversized, weighted and fanged merkin from hell), but not before she realized she’d done something horribly wrong and was trying to dislodge her claws herself. Mercifully, this did not last long and I was able to un-Velcro the little stinker and wing her out the door.

I do feel bad about the bit where she caught the side of her head on the jamb as she went out. I didn’t mean to do that and I have felt like a horrific cat mom most of the day. But she ran off bouncing and doesn’t seem to be any more kittenishly dim than usual, and isn’t biting me or meowing in protest when I prod her head for injuries, so I assume it gave her a momentary headache and now she’s fine.

She’s not ever allowed back in the bathroom while I’m busy in there, but she is fine.