Cat Lick


I twas an expression that was well used back when I was child, but I didn’t think I would ever actually get around to having a cat-lick wash.

As is well documented, the pets in our house aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the box. Speaking of boxes it would be fair to say they are as mad as a box of frogs, yet there seems there is always a new height they can take their lunacy to.

It was the turn of Willow this time. The skittiest kittie on the block. No rustle of paper is too small not to send her running for the door. Yet at the same time, she’s more than happy to swipe the dog across his muzzle if he inadvertently walks by her.

She often comes and takes over the pouffe of an evening and will resort to licking feet in order for you to move them off her pouffe. However, things look a bit different in the living room this weekend. The pouffe is now coverless and a different colour as Helen uses it as a practical work for her upholstery course. Then there is the newly arrived Christmas tree and its decorations. The room looks a little different and is obviously confusing the poor cat.

So much so that she decided her new spot to lounge around would be on the back of the sofa just behind my head. Sat there she turned on the purring machine, generating more decibels than a 747. It’s a good job I don’t need to listen to the TV to know what’s happening in the American Football.

And then it started. It would appear Willow had mistaken the back of my thick head for a kitten, and she proceeded to start licking. The whole of the back of my head. The little rough tongue sandpapering the short hairs with great gusto. Five minutes it lasted, with Willow even turning around so she could do the far side of my head that she couldn’t reach from her original position.

It was the strangest sensation, ended only because there was movement to leave the room from Helen (who was pissing herself laughing) and therefore the possibility of food. I’m not convinced I want a cat-lick wash again.