bathtime

My brother referred to my "boyfriend" on the phone today. He meant Kenard. Ken is widely known to be quite beloved by me. And I thought I was being restrained around others, only mentioning him only one out of ten times he dances purringly through my mind. When he and I are alone, it quickly devolves into me calling him my "wittle mister Kenardlesworth," and him purring through stinky drool.

Last night, exhausted from working on a chain gang all day, I took a nice hot bath with Epsom salts. As is his custom, Kenard sat on the floor with his front paws on the side of the tub, ready to bat anything and everything into the water. After running out of sinkable items, he started to creep across the faucet at the end of the tub to try to reach the shampoo bottle on the other side. There's not much of an edge along the wall that side, so he'd reach over and start to slip, then retreat to sit for a while pretending to think before he'd try it again.

Finally he got up the courage to go for it, and with one paw outstretched towards the bottle and his furry belly taut over the faucet, he slipped... I caught him just in time, one hand under his middle. He stayed sedately on the floor after that, "cleaning" the shower curtain with his paws from the safety of dry land.

So that was my evening: my husband greeted me at the door with a big glass of wine, and my boyfriend tried to take a bath with me.