Although her mother purrs loudly, Butterscotch is a relatively silent kitten. She rarely even squeaks. So when kittenish yowling erupted from the visitor's bath, I headed to investigate.
Bandita was curled contentedly in the sink. Butter, trying her best to emulate her inconsiderate parent, had crawled up the rolled throw rug she usually snuggled next to as she slept, or scaled the peaks of tp to the lip of the stool, where she'd evidently lost her balance and slipped in.
She was facing the deep part, very vocally insisting as she shivered that she was not one of those water baby cats like the one frolicking in the swimming pool with a German shepherd. I plucked her out, wrapping her in a fluffy blue bath towel and rubbing vigorously as we were taught to do for frostbite, etc. Soon the huge towel had no dry area left. I moved on to my bedroom, snatching up a green extra large beach towel.
Two-Faced came over, sniffing her tail, licking it a few times without a hiss thrown in. She kept tracking me as I walked for and aft, rocking the "baby" as I soothed her, drying and rubbing until the shivers gradually stopped. I parked and read, Butter tucked under my arm in sleep. I returned her nearly three hours later, carefully shutting the toilet lid and setting her on it. Bandita didn't even offer a sniff to her newly fluffy daughter.