Some cats flee at the sight of a brush. Others, like me, tolerate it with dignified patience. And then, there’s Schmutz—who demands to be cleaned with a sticky lint roller as though it’s the height of luxury.
It starts the same way every time. Ann peels off a fresh layer of sticky tape, preparing to de-fur her own clothes, when suddenly—a scream. Not of fear, but of demand. Schmutz bolts toward her, tail high, eyes wide with anticipation. She screeches until Ann obliges, rolling the tape over her sleek fur, pulling loose hairs away in sticky satisfaction.
Schmutz purrs. She stretches. She turns to expose every side, as though receiving the most indulgent spa treatment known to cat-kind. Meanwhile, I sit and watch, mildly horrified.
Schmutz vs. Self-Grooming: A Losing Battle
Unlike normal, self-sufficient cats who groom themselves, Schmutz has fully outsourced her hygiene to Ann. Why lick when you can be professionally serviced?
This extends beyond the sticky roller. Most cats would be insulted if a human wiped them down after the litter box. Schmutz? She expects it. The moment she finishes her business, she screeches again—this time for the sacred butt wipe. Ann, resigned, obliges.
I, on the other hand, handle my own affairs like a respectable feline. But it gets worse.
The Litter Box Escape Act
The real tragedy of this arrangement is Schmutz’s dramatic exit strategy. The moment she’s done in the litter box, she doesn’t bother to cover it—no, she runs. Full sprint. As if the scene of the crime might follow her.
And who is left to deal with the aftermath? Me.
Every time, I sigh, walk over, and cover the evidence. Because someone has to. Meanwhile, Felix groans from the other room, dramatically lamenting the latest olfactory attack.
“Schmutz, that is vile!” he calls, holding his nose. Schmutz, utterly unbothered, is already halfway across the apartment, waiting for Ann to prepare her next sticky roller session.
A Shocking Revelation:
Maybe Schmutz is Onto SomethingI had long dismissed the sticky roller as another one of Schmutz’s eccentricities. That is, until Ann—perhaps as a joke, perhaps out of curiosity—tried it on me.
I was about to protest, but then… it wasn’t bad.
No loose hairs in my mouth. No licking until my tongue felt like sandpaper. And best of all? No hairballs.
I remained still as Ann rolled the tape over my fur, carefully collecting what I would have otherwise swallowed. Was this… efficiency? Had Schmutz been right all along?
Schmutz, from her perch, looked insufferably smug.
Why Is She Like This?
One might assume that Schmutz was raised in opulence, conditioned to expect a life of service. But no, she simply decided that human intervention was superior. Perhaps she believes that grooming is beneath her. Perhaps she enjoys the attention. Perhaps she is conducting some elaborate experiment to see how much absurdity the household will tolerate.
Whatever the reason, the ritual continues. Ann rolls. Schmutz purrs. I judge. Felix suffers.
And at the end of it all, I still end up covering the litter box. Because, apparently, that’s my role in this household.
