I was lied to. Cats are not self cleaning

“Let me call you back. I have to give Mark a sponge bath,” I said to my sister as I hung up the phone.

Mark is a cat. Mark goes outside and rolls in dirt. Mark is disgusting.

I have washcloths I use to scrub him when he comes in. He weighs 17 pounds, so anything I do to him has to be with acquiescence, if not enthusiasm. I get the cloth wet with hot water, then start scrubbing. He actually loves when I do his head and neck, and purrs and wraps himself around my legs. That too, is disgusting.

When he and his sister, Cairo, were little, she used to give him baths because girls of all species care about those kinds of things, apparently. When you first see one cat bathing another cat, you think to yourself, would I really want somebody else’s spit all over me?

And then you remember a time before wet wipes when your mother used to spit, ladylike, onto a Kleenex and try to get the ice cream off your face while you squirmed and yelled stop and she just held your face a little tighter. OK, maybe that was just my mother.

She always had a Kleenex up her sleeve and she always had some spit ready to clean up a whole roster of little girls; the most you could hope for was that she did you first. If your mom didn’t do this to you, you’re either lying or lucky.

The cats have a huge scratching post tower that I call their bunk beds. It’s in the front window of the living room, because the interior decorating ship sailed long ago. Mark usually just flops onto one of the shelves and passes out, tired from rolling in dirt and having repeated sponge baths.

But sometimes he barrels up the stairs and I have to chase him, because I know where he’s headed. My room. To my big kingsized bed with white sheets and a white bedspread.

I know. I’m insane. But I waited until the boys were finally old enough for me to risk having a colour besides brown in my home, and I’ll be damned if a cat is going to take it away from me. I pay the price.

That white bed stays white for about 10 seconds and then it is covered in dirt. If I’m lucky, it’s just cat paw prints, and I can say it’s a pattern, like Mark was making tie dye. With mud. And feet.

I sometimes put a towel down, and he very carefully lies beside it.

He’s supposed to be in by 9 p.m. ; I stand in the street shaking a bag of treats whisper-yelling his name, and all I get is the neighbour’s cat who wants to come in my house, eat treats and probably lie on my white bed.

One night at 10 p.m., Ari drove in as I stood on the front step, uselessly shaking the treats.

“He’s up the road, just sitting there. He can hear you,” said Ari.

“He’s busting curfew. I’ve had it with this cat,” I replied.

If I wanted to be ignored by a small, smelly noise machine, I would have had another kid.

“Leave him out for the night. That’ll teach him,” said Ari.

“Then I can’t sleep. I keep getting up to call for him, so I can give him his bath and get him to bed.”

“You’re really weird. When you’re away, I just leave him out if he doesn’t show up.”

This horrified me.

I bet he doesn’t even give him sponge baths either.