The water was neither hot nor cold, which is to say it was wrong. This much they established before the first cup was poured. The fact that I stood perfectly still throughout the entire ordeal should not be mistaken for cooperation. I was gathering intelligence.
The soap smelled of lavender and false promises. The scrubbing was thorough. The rinsing, interminable. Through it all I maintained the composed bearing of a gentleman enduring an inconvenience. They spoke to me in those encouraging tones humans reserve for procedures they know to be unnecessary. I noted everything.
The towel came next — industrial-strength terry cloth applied with the sort of vigor typically reserved for carpet cleaning. My ears received particular attention, which I allowed because the alternative was shaking water across their hardwood floors. A tactical concession.
But the blow dryer. The blow dryer was an insult.
It was at this precise moment — warm air buffeting my newly pristine coat, the scent of artificial spring meadow rising from my fur — that I made my decision. Some responses cannot be delayed. Some statements require immediate delivery.
The bathroom door opened. I stepped into the hallway with the measured pace of an ambassador returning from difficult negotiations. Then I broke into a run.
Not the casual lope I employ when accompanying Dad to the studio. Not the purposeful trot I use for morning inspections. This was velocity with intent. This was the full application of sixty-five pounds moving at maximum efficiency across every available surface in the house.
Living room to kitchen. Kitchen to family room. Family room to studio, where I executed a perfect banking turn off the sofa and launched myself back toward the main bedroom. The donut beds received a flying leap. The hallway, a sustained sprint. The return loop included a brief detour to rub my clean neck against the wool rug in the living room — a detail I’m certain they appreciated.
Gus watched from his position on the family room sofa with the detached interest of someone who had endured his own bath yesterday and understood completely. He did not move. He simply tracked my progress with his eyes, occasionally lifting his ears when I thundered past.
Three circuits. Four. Five. Each lap perfectly calculated to demonstrate that while they may control the bath schedule, I control what happens afterward. The house is mine to navigate. The speed is mine to determine. The statement, mine to make.
By the sixth circuit I had made my point. I settled onto the cool hardwood near the kitchen, panting slightly, thoroughly satisfied with both my performance and my timing.
They stood in the doorway laughing. As if this were entertainment rather than diplomacy.
~P.W.