Going to the Loo is not a Spectator Sport!

...but I am thinking about starting to charge admission in my house.

My cats are scat and watersports fetishists, it would seem.

Any move towards the hallway, where you could, conveivably, be going to towards the bathroom, results in a stampede of truely impressive proportions.

There are only two cats, you see- well one and a half really as one is still a kitten- but in that moment in time, anyone would swear there is a plethora of shrunken elephants charging you from behind.

Your best bet is to stand still and wait till they pass, allowing a moment for the dust in their wake to settle. But no one every waits. Human instict kicks in and all you can think of is "arghhh! Run! before you are trampled underneath their mighty feet!"

Usually running presents another problem. Both the cats are too dumb to avoid feet. So, inevidably, one will be stepped upon. And, drama queens that they are, they can't simply wince, learn from their mistakes and move on- no- thye have to freak the fuck out, youwling and hollering about like someone is poking hot sticks into their ears.

So then you have to stop and check that they are ok. Difficult to catch a hurt cat, too. They just wont stop wiggling and writhing about. So after you've managed to grasp one of the slithery little bactards by getting the tip of an ear, a back paw and most of a tail in your fist, that tends to set the whole howling process off again.

5 minutes later and you are in the hallway, dancing from one foot to the other because you are busting to pee, and the little furbag is finally calm enough to begin purring contentedly- until you make the move to lay it down. Then its all huffiness and indignation.

Continuing along the hallway, and making it finally to the bathroom with milliseconds before your protesting bladder gives way, you will usually find the door has developed this weird inability to close, and make a strage squeak with repeated attempts.

This usually menas that one - or more frequently, both cats and stuck, halfway in the bathroom and halfway into the hallway, stretched thin in the middle, attempting to hold their spleens in as the slamming door does iots best to guillitine them.

And so begins the epic tale of yowling for sympathy once more.

Usually at this point I allow them in the bathroom- not cause I desire and audience, but becuase I'm mortified at the idea that I might, as a full grown women in her 30s, wet my pants like a toddler.

Cats are supposed to be refined. Dignified. Elegant. Especially ours- both purebreds- one lilac point burmese, one black oriental. Somehow this elevated sense of being does not get bestowed upon those around. They could not care less that you are pising enough to put out a small forest fire. They think nothing of your privacy.

Winding about your legs, standing on hind feet to see under your ass like they don't have any idea what the noise is. Jumping into your lap, head butting your chin and demanding that you treat them as they are your sole purpose in life.

And as if this is not enough, their newest game is to goblin into the bathroom overnight and steal away with the toilet roll.

I find that when this happens, it is best to open the door to call out to Scootah and ask him to find it or bring me another. I do this partly because I really need the loo roll to wipe- but also, I'll admit to finding it amusing to watch the wee furry little bastards ears prickle at the sound of footsteps in the hall, watching them sprint off excitedly, and seeing, a moment later, the Boi coming round the corner full tilt, eyes wide as he tried to change step mid stride as to not step on a stray cat limb.

Perhaps it is a spectator sport, afterall.