The Problem with a White Cat...

...Is that she rarely looks white.  More of a yellowish cream.

In her old age, Daisy has become a bit lax with her personal hygiene.  Her teeth are orange, her breathe is vile, she rarely grooms herself so she usually has matted tufts of fur.  Worse of all, she seems to have stopped washing her, erm, lady parts which are often decorated with splatters of crap.  She really is a delight to behold.

                                                      (It's amazing what a spot of photoshopping can do...)

I had bought her some kitty shampoo for Christmas (she was delighted) and have been meaning to tackle the onerous task of making her sparkle for months.  To be honest, I was more concerned about my welfare than hers as I have a fond memory of my Dad being shredded to ribbons after she fell in a neighbour's murky pond many years ago.

So last night, I took the metaphorical bull by the horns and decided to bathe her.

First, I gave her a good old grooming.  She cannot make up her mind whether she enjoys this or not.  She will willingly sit on my lap, without being held whilst I pull the brush through her dishevelled fur; yet she moans and groans and hisses and spits to show me that she's not entirely happy.

                                                       (Little does she know what is about to happen to her...)

Next, I filled up a bowl of warm water, lay Daisy inside a vintage YSL towel (only the best for our Dais) and soaked her from head to paw with a flannel.  Then I grabbed the kitty shampoo and lathered her up.

She sat there as good as gold, bless her.  I don't know if this shows her levels of trust, or stupidity.

                                                               (It also shows how bloody skinny she is)

Then, wrapped in her vintage YSL, I took her upstairs, ran the shower, put her inside the cubicle and slammed the door.

I have honestly never felt so guilty in my entire life.  And trust me, I have done worse...

She howled, she cried and she clawed at the shower door for me to open.  I felt sick, but she needed to stay in long enough for the shampoo to get out of her fur and I sure as hell was not getting in there with her to find out if it was.

She emerged a few minutes later, dripping wet with her arthritic bones protruding from her pink skin.  I wrapped her in a fresh towel and took her downstairs to give her a blow dry.

The poor lass took a while to forgive me, but this morning she is looking better than ever.  The smell of wet cat has gone and in place, has left a much more pleasant aroma of aloe vera.  I've even spied her having a little groom of her freshly quaffed fur.

TA DAHHHHH.....

                                                                                             The 'after shot' (hardly any photoshopping required)