If Ben ever writes a handbook on living with kittens, chapter one should read:
“Do not leave wet, shiny, or expensive things unattended.”
Sadly, he hasn’t written it yet.
Which is why, after our paint-based artistic triumph, the three of us were still faintly blue. Ben had done his best to wipe us clean, muttering things about “tiny vandals” and “career-ending levels of chaos,” but in the end he’d sighed, pointed at us, and said the now-infamous words:
“Looks like you’ll all need a bath.”
Then he left the house. Something about buying cat shampoo.
A bath.
The word lingered like a threat and a mystery all at once. I didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded ominous - something between punishment and plumbing.
The house fell silent. Sunlight poured through the hallway window, illuminating our paw-printed masterpiece like a gallery exhibit. The once-forbidden room now told the glorious story of our rebellion in vivid shades of “Ocean Breeze.”
I strolled through the doorway, tail high, inspecting our work. Blue pawmarks led across the floor and up the wall, ending in one particularly impressive streak that looked, if you squinted, like a portrait of Ben screaming. I paused in front of it, admiring the craftsmanship. “Yes,” I thought, “that’s the emotion I was going for.”
Some artists paint landscapes. I prefer psychological horror.
My siblings wandered behind me, leaving faint new smudges as they went. The sunlight caught the paint still clinging to our fur, truly stunning.
Ben would be thrilled. Probably moved to tears. Humans always cry when faced with great art. I imagined critics gathering: “Such bold texture! Such emotional turmoil! Such… chaos!”
After my inspection, I decided the exhibit was ready for public viewing. Unfortunately, our only critic was currently at the pet shop, preparing whatever this mysterious “bath” ordeal was.
Still, anticipation is part of art. I reclined dramatically in the doorway and began grooming a blue paw. Some might call it cleaning. I call it “texture refinement.” My siblings followed suit, proving that imitation is, in fact, the highest form of flattery.
The front door creaked open.
Ben’s footsteps echoed, he was humming. Always a bad sign. Cheerful humming means disaster for someone who isn't human.
No one hums before good news. Ever.
I peeked into the hallway. He was carrying a small bag and that dangerous look of determination. I recognised the expression, the same one he’d worn right before the paint incident. Nothing good ever follows determination.
“Alright, you three,” he called. “Time to get you cleaned up.”
Cleaned up. Two words that strike fear into any respectable cat’s heart.
I didn’t wait for clarification. I bolted down the hallway and under the table. My siblings, ever the followers, scattered in opposite directions - one behind the curtain, one under the sofa. My sister behind the curtain was a masterclass in “visible hiding.” Her tail stuck out, wiggling like a neon sign that said “I’m right here.”. Subtlety isn’t her strong suit.
Meanwhile, my brother left a perfect blue streak on the fabric as he slid under the sofa - like someone had tried to butter a pancake with paint.
Ben found my brother first. The betrayal was swift and noisy. Scooped up like a sack of laundry and carried off to the bathroom. The sound of running water followed. Then a splash. Then an outraged howl that rattled the windows.
I froze. My whiskers twitched. The horror had begun. If the sound effects were any indication, my brother had either melted or joined the plumbing system.
A few minutes later, Ben returned, holding one very soggy, very offended kitten wrapped in a towel. My brother looked… different. Fluffier, cleaner, and smelling suspiciously floral. His eyes said everything: Don’t go in there.
Ben looked around. “Two to go.”
I slid further under the table. The curtain rustled. There was a squeak. My sister’s escape attempt lasted three seconds before she too was captured, carried away, and introduced to the horrors of indoor rain.
More splashing. More outrage. At this point, it sounded like a water park designed by Satan.
Silence again.
Then Ben’s voice, dangerously calm: “Mittens.”
He always uses that tone right before catastrophe. The deceptively gentle one. Like a storm saying “trust me.”
I pressed myself flat against the floorboards. I could hear him moving through the room - slow, deliberate steps. The hunt was on.
“Mittens,” he cooed. “Come here, you little artist. Just a quick bath.”
Quick bath. That phrase belongs in a horror film. Right between “It’s just a spider” and “This won’t hurt a bit.”
A shadow moved beside me. I darted out from under the table and sprinted for the stairs. He lunged. I dodged. Claws clattered on wood. My tail streamed behind me like a flag of defiance.
Almost free, until I hit a patch of water from my freshly bathed siblings and skidded sideways into the wall. Traitorous physics.
Ben caught me mid-slide. “Gotcha.”
He carried me toward the bathroom, ignoring my protests and the sheer injustice of it all. Steam drifted through the doorway like battlefield smoke. And then… the water.
It gurgled softly, a sound so innocent yet so sinister. I stared into the porcelain pit, horrified. It was enormous - far too large for drinking and suspiciously splashy.
Ben murmured, “There we go, warm and ready.”
Warm?
What kind of monster heats the water before committing the crime? Cold water would’ve been cruel, warm water was premeditated.
I squirmed, claws flexing in primal protest, but he held me like a man who has learned from experience. “It’s just water,” he said soothingly, lowering me in.
Just water. The phrase of fools.
My paws touched the surface. Immediate betrayal. It clung to me. It moved. I tried to leap free, but he blocked every escape route.
My brain screamed “RETREAT,” but my dignity screamed louder.
I meowed the kind of sound that could summon ancient spirits. He didn’t flinch. He just poured a small handful of warm water down my back and said, “Good boy.”
Good boy? GOOD BOY? This was war. This was treachery disguised as tenderness.
Then came the shampoo. A sweet, floral scent that would haunt my nightmares forever. He rubbed it into my fur like some deranged spa attendant, humming all the while.
At one point he said, “Isn’t that nice?” and I considered biting his elbow just to clarify my stance on “nice.”
Then he started massaging my head like I was at a luxury retreat for idiots. “Relax, Mittens,” he whispered. Oh, sure. Let me just meditate while I’m being marinated.
I stared at him, wide-eyed, silently composing my memoirs. “Chapter Twelve: The Day My Dignity Drowned.”
He lathered, rinsed, repeated. The audacity. Why repeat? What part of me screamed ‘I’d like to experience this twice’?!
By the time he was done, I was soaked, humiliated, and faintly perfumed. My tail drooped like a wet noodle. He lifted me out with far too much satisfaction, wrapped me in a towel, and said proudly, “See? All clean!”
Then, as if my dignity hadn’t suffered enough, he tucked the towel tighter and cooed, “Look at you, a perfect little purrito.” A purrito. As in a burrito. Made of cat. I stared at him in silent disbelief, wrapped like a furry hostage from a Mexican restaurant. If I ever regain control of my limbs, he’s going to regret inventing that word.
I glared up at him through damp whiskers. “Clean,” I thought, “but at what cost?”
As he rubbed me dry, I looked him dead in the eyes and planned at least seventeen revenge scenarios, starting with “sleep on his keyboard” and ending with “strategically shed fur in his shoes.”
Back in the living room, he lined us up on the rug like trophies of survival: three fluffy, traumatised kittens, smelling of lavender and betrayal.
Ben beamed. “There. Fresh, clean kittens.”
He collapsed on the sofa, exhausted, looking terribly pleased with himself.
I blinked slowly at him, my tail flicking in quiet menace.
He thought it was over. He thought water would wash away the spirit of rebellion. He thought wrong.
Baths may cleanse the fur, but vengeance stays spotless.
Somewhere beneath the faint scent of flowers and defeat, vengeance was brewing.
And it smelled nothing like shampoo.
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