Hank, the Amazing Snorkel Cat!
Underwater Breathing and Other Feline Failures
August, 1996
My cat Hank has always been fond of the bathtub. In fact, he spent his first three weeks in my apartment living in the bathtub full time, and used it for the following year as a sort of kitty-bomb shelter to protect him from strange and frightening sounds. Like the refrigerator turning on, or the upstairs neighbor whispering something.
Hank has always found great comfort in that tub, and for the time he's been with me, he's been telling me that there's something more for him.
I should have guessed what that was when as a kitten, he'd often climb into the shower with me. I thought it was cute how he'd jump into the shower, then be surprised at how wet it was and try to jump back out. His attempts to jump out of the shower were always impeded by the shower curtain liner. He'd generally splat into the liner at full speed, only to slide back into the tub.
I'd watch him do this two or three times before taking pity on him, and gently lifting him out of the tub. What was so surprising was that he'd always jump back in. I've always attributed this to the fact that Hank is so stupid that I often wonder if he's some bizarre cross between feline and labrador retriever.
What's even more surprising is my putting all of this in the past tense, because he still does this. He also tries to climb into the tub while I'm taking a bath. When I'm done with either bath or shower, he's always there to swat at the water as it goes down the drain.
I used to think that he did this as a way to remind me to fill his water bowl. I used to think that until I noticed that he'd do this, even when the apartment floor was virtually covered with full water bowls. I'd still rack this up to stupidity on his part, remembering when he went hungry for a week, just because I moved his food dish from the right side of the refrigerator to the left side.
After two years, I've realized that perhaps Hank isn't the only stupid one in the apartment, and that perhaps he's trying to tell me something about his hobbies. I eventually caught on, because whenever I'd go to the bathroom, Hank would race in, sit in the bathtub, and make all manner of kitty noises conveying great longing and deprivation at me.
I'll note that of the three cats I've boarded in recent years, all three have found my going to the bathroom to be the single most fascinating unifying activity in the Banks household. Whenever I go into the bathroom to contemplate the world, both my current feline boarders will race in to discuss the matter with me. Hank will generally retire to the bathtub, and Ruby will just sit next to my feet, as if to stand guard while I go about my business.
So, in recent months, I've taken to running the water in the bathtub for Hank, so he can swat and chase after it as it rushes down the drain. As exciting as this has been for him, he has persisted in conveying to me feelings of further longing and deprivation.
One day, I
closed the drain on the tub and ran the water long enough to
leave about a half an inch in the tub. Hank was transported to labrador-kitty heaven. He
stomped around in the water for a full half hour before rejoining the rest of us. I had go
back to the bathroom to check up on him every once in a while, just to make sure he was
still ok.
Since then, I've been in the habit of leaving water in the tub all the time. This has transformed my relationship with Hank. Where before, he accepted me as his keeper, this one change in my behavior has been rewarded with never ending expressions of love. He purrs louder, cuddles with me more, spends more time "helping" me work on the computer, and doesn't try to escape from the apartment quite as often.
And, of course, he never has dry feet.
Sometimes, I'll just sit in there watching him in the tub. Some days, he'll just stand there, staring at the water he's up to his kitty ankles in. Other days, he'll try to drink it all. Usually, he just stomps around in it, occasionally sitting down (yes, really sitting in the water). Lately, he rarely has a dry butt.
So, just the other day, I was sitting in the bathroom, contemplating solutions to all the world's suffering. Ruby was sitting patiently at my side, and Hank was happily stomping around in his wading pool. Just as I was about to have it all solved, I was jolted from my reverie by the sound of a cat choking.
Ruby and I casually turned to the right to see what was up. Hank, for whatever reason, was staggering around, coughing and hacking. We watched and waited.
Before long, I noticed that a bug had died, become waterlogged, and fallen to the bottom of the tub. I noticed this because Hank was paying quite a bit of attention to it. Then, I saw it:
Hank walked over to the place where the bug was, placed his nose against it, and commenced sniffing. Of course, it was under a half an inch of water, giving Hank one major snootfull of water.
Again, Hank went into spasms of coughing and choking. And, no sooner did he recover, but he returned to the bug to sniff it again.
He did this four or five times. I nearly fell off the seat, I was laughing so hard. (Here's another reason why I think Hank may be part Labrador Retriever: unlike other cats, it doesn't bother him when I laugh at him.)
Ruby looked up at me with an expression on her face that said: "This is so embarrassing. He's violating the whole kitty paradigm."
After Hank's fifth or sixth bout of coughing, Ruby (ever so gently) stood up on her hind legs, and with her left front paw delicately propped against the top lip of the bathtub, leaned into the tub and clobbered Hank with her right.
Hank did what he always does when Ruby hits him: He simply dematerialized. Ruby chased him down and punched him in the nose again.
This hasn't slowed Hank any. Last night, he came to bed with a wet butt, and while we cuddled, I could have sworn that I heard Ruby splashing around in the tub.
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