Once upon a time, SnarkGirl was a wee brown-haired beastie -- though milder in temperament than Wee Ginge. As she was the First and Only she had the run of the house.
She was around two and a half when she administered her first swirly -- to a cat.
Not just any cat, but Bill Z. Bubba, Elder Statescat and notorious grump. Bill was my college cat; he predated grad school, marriage, home ownership, the dog and children. He spent his formative years being fed pizza and developed a taste for dark beers; he saw no use whatsoever in husband, canine or small children. In fact, his rather dyspeptic expression seemed to snarl, "Wasn't life better before all this nonsense? We didn't need them!"**
Bill would often take up station on the (closed) potty lid while I showered and dressed every morning. On this particular morning, the lid was left up, and so he precariously perched on the ring -- careful not to sully his stripey tail with toilet water while he watched the morning's doings.
Perhaps inspired by her recent bout of potty training, SnarkGirl decided that he needed to relieve himself, and only needed the proper instructions to do so. While I watched, she launched herself at him, hollering, "KITTY GO POTTY!"
And she pushed him in. With such force that the lid slammed down, effectively trapping him in the bowl. A fiendish, despairing howl arose from the toilet, as he struggled to launch himself out -- without being able to gain purchase on the wet porcelain, or throw the lid open. The lid rattled and thumped ominously as I ushered the toddler out and grabbed a towel.
Holding the towel out like a goalie's net, I used a toe to open the lid. The wet cat rocketed out at light speed and I caught him. I wrapped him in the towel and briskly rubbed what felt like twenty pounds of pure shaking, flailing rage, and then launched him towards the hall. Still wailing and in a state of high piss-off, he evaporated with what sounded suspiciously like a sonic boom in his wake.
We didn't see him for the rest of the day. Frankly, given his demeanor towards SnarkGirl, I don't think he's ever forgiven her.
**N.B.: Bill Z. Bubba will be twenty -- a ripe, respectable age for a house cat -- in April. is attitude and opinions have not changed to date.