And now, nicer stuff.
Cats and Baths: A True Story.
When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I had the most adorable cat, Nimrod. He slept with me, with his head on my pillow, his body under the covers and very often a paw on me. He was a loving, beautiful, best of boys and he and my dearest Georgiana tie as the best cats a woman could ever have.
So, we get the picture. Beautiful, Nimrod, a king among cats and so many stories I could tell, but we will tell the Tale of the Bath. He liked being in the bathroom with me when I was having a bath and he went from chirruping on the floor/having a lie down on the floor while I lathered myself. Soon enough, the floor wasn't enough. He started sitting on the edge of the bath. I could see this going very, very wrong. It did. He fell in. I grabbed hold of my legs and pulled them up to my chest so that he couldn't rip my legs to pieces. But. He did nothing. He just sat there, up to his neck in water, perfectly happy. He sat there with me while I bathed and after a while got out, had a bit of a shake and then started to lick himself dry.
After that first time, he would often come in and sit on the edge of the bath but for reasons known only to himself, he couldn't just get in the bath. Maybe it was against cat rules, but he would always "accidentally" fall in, sit there up to his neck for a while and then get out. It was bloody delightful.