If you’d told me a year ago that my cats would be obsessed with bath time, I would’ve laughed in your face. I mean, aren’t cats supposed to run for their lives the second they hear running water? That’s what every pet article says, anyway. But my cats—Taro and Biscuit—apparently never got the memo.
Biscuit, the ginger troublemaker, doesn’t just tolerate bath time. He full-on claims the tub like it’s his personal hot tub. The second I start running water, he’s there, staring at me, waiting for his “spa treatment.” But get this—he doesn’t want an actual bath. Nope. He wants to sit in his favorite plastic bowl, which I float in the warm water like some makeshift boat. He’ll just lounge there with this look like, “Yes, human, this is the life I deserve.”
Meanwhile, Taro (the one with the judge-y face), sits on the edge, supervising the whole operation. He acts above it all, but I swear he’s secretly jealous. He watches Biscuit like he’s trying to figure out the secret to the whole floating-bowl thing. Sometimes he dips a paw in, like he’s testing the temperature at a fancy spa.
Honestly, it’s both hilarious and a little ridiculous, but somehow, bath time has become a part of our daily routine. I can’t even remember the last time I had a bath without Biscuit demanding his own “spa” treatment. The first time it happened, I thought I had lost my mind. I mean, who needs a bathtub full of bubbles when you’ve got a cat who acts like he owns the place?
But as bizarre as it seemed, Biscuit’s love for bath time became a comforting ritual. Every evening, like clockwork, I’d start the water, and there he was, eager for his float. It was like a little moment of peace for both of us after a long day—he got pampered, and I got to unwind.
Taro, on the other hand, continued to watch from the sidelines. He’d stare at Biscuit with that perpetual scowl of his, but the moment I finished and picked up the towel, he’d dart over to lick my fingers, probably hoping for a scrap of the attention.
One night, however, something strange happened. As I was preparing for their usual bath-time routine, I noticed Biscuit wasn’t hanging around. He wasn’t coming to me with his usual enthusiasm. I called his name, expecting him to come bounding in from wherever he was hiding. But there was nothing. I checked under the bed, in the kitchen, and even behind the curtains—no Biscuit.
I felt a little uneasy, so I called my friend Olivia, who lives nearby and is a huge animal lover. She came over quickly, and we began searching together. It was unusual for Biscuit to go off on his own, especially at bath time. He loved that bowl like it was his royal throne, after all.
After about twenty minutes, we finally found him. He was curled up in the corner of my bedroom, looking exhausted. His usual energetic demeanor was gone. I rushed over, kneeling beside him. “Biscuit, what’s wrong?” I whispered, lightly stroking his fur.
Olivia knelt down beside me. “Something’s off. He doesn’t look right.”
I immediately began to worry. Biscuit wasn’t a sick cat. He’d always been a little crazy, but healthy. We debated whether we should take him to the vet right away, but Olivia convinced me to wait until the morning, thinking he might just be feeling off from an upset stomach or something minor.
That night, Biscuit barely moved. He didn’t even want to be near the water. He didn’t ask for his bath, and the next morning, he barely acknowledged me when I came into the room. It broke my heart to see him like that.
I spent the next few days watching him closely. His appetite was off, and he barely moved. Every time I tried to coax him into his favorite spots, even the tub, he would simply curl up, his eyes dull and distant.
After what felt like an eternity, I took him to the vet. They did a full workup and a few tests. The doctor came back with some concerning news. Biscuit had a kidney infection.
I was in complete shock. Cats are so good at hiding their pain, but I never realized how much he had been suffering in silence. The doctor explained that it was common in older cats, but it was treatable if we caught it early enough. I felt a huge weight lift off my chest when she assured me Biscuit would be okay with the right medication and rest.
But the road to recovery wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped. Biscuit spent the next few days recovering, and I watched him like a hawk. He wasn’t as energetic as usual, but I knew he was getting better, slowly. What really helped was his comfort with the routine we had built over the years—his bath time. Even though he wasn’t up for a full float in the tub, I let him sit next to the water, and he’d occasionally dip his paw in, just like he used to.
It was during one of these moments that I realized something. We had been so focused on what was supposed to happen—Biscuit in his bowl, floating happily in the water—that we never truly understood how much it meant for him to just be included, even when he wasn’t feeling his best. He wasn’t in the water anymore, but the simple act of sitting beside it brought him a sense of normalcy that he needed to heal.
Then came the twist.
A few weeks later, I noticed something strange happening with Taro. The very same cat who had once been content to judge Biscuit’s baths from a distance now found himself dipping his paw in the water, much more actively than before. Slowly, he started to get closer to the water, inching in more and more each day.
At first, I thought it was just curiosity. Cats can be like that sometimes, especially when they see their companions getting all the attention. But then, something unexpected happened. Taro, the grumpy and judgmental one, jumped into the water on his own, sitting there for a few minutes with a relaxed expression on his face.
That’s when I realized. It wasn’t just about Biscuit anymore. It was about the bond between all of us—me, Taro, and Biscuit. In a way, the bath time ritual had always been more than just about the water. It had become a way for all of us to connect. And now, Taro—my grumpy, aloof cat—was becoming part of it, too.
But the biggest surprise came just a few days later, when Biscuit, fully recovered and back to his old self, hopped into the tub with Taro. He nudged his brother as if to say, “It’s okay. You can join in.” And Taro, surprisingly, didn’t hesitate. He settled in beside Biscuit, both cats lounging together in their makeshift spa.
It hit me then—sometimes, healing doesn’t look the way we expect it to. We can be so focused on getting back to normal, that we forget that the process of healing itself is what brings people (or cats) closer together. Biscuit’s sickness, though terrifying at first, had not only helped me recognize how fragile life can be, but it also gave me the opportunity to bond with Taro in a way I hadn’t imagined before.
The lesson here? Even the toughest times can lead to something beautiful. Sometimes, when things seem broken, all it takes is a little patience, care, and willingness to adapt to bring us closer to those we love—even our furry friends.
I’d learned to let go of my expectations of how things should be, and instead, embraced what they could be. And what they could be was far more rewarding than I had ever imagined.
So, if you’re facing a challenge or a twist you didn’t see coming, remember: sometimes, the best connections and moments of growth come when we least expect them. Let things unfold at their own pace, and trust that you’re right where you need to be.
Share this post with someone who needs to hear it today, and let them know: even when things feel off, there’s always a chance for healing and new beginnings.
