Reflections on the Sixth Week of Summer – Splish Splash 

Rills on the Spiral Stairs

Rills, the kitten that discovered how to elude cardboard barriers and climb the open backed spiral stairs, cued me we had a water problem. Standing statuesque, he raised his paw above the water-filled, six-inch ceramic bowl our niece Laura created. Rills glared. Then, as fast as hummingbird’s wings beat, his paw whacked the water.

Water flew in an arc and splashed onto floor tiles by the sliding glass door.

While the water sloshed in the bowl, Rills whacked again.

Slosh, splash, splat. Puddles ringed the half empty bowl, and trickles ran along grooves between tiles.

Rills flicked his paw spraying more water, took a tentative step―right into a puddle―and flicked his paw again.

Before our cat Emma died, she splashed water out of the same bowl then progressed to tipping it over.

The prospect of perpetual puddles depressed me. I’d have to wipe up annoying water messes for another sixteen years if I didn’t curb the behavior. I made a plan.

Before Rills taught his brothers to splash ponds on the tile and streams across the great room, I would introduce the kittens to the cat fountain Emma had used. She didn’t splash or tip the fountain. When the kittens drank from the fountain, I’d remove their tippable bowl. No water messes.

While three pairs of kitten eyes watched from the sofa Friday afternoon, I assembled fountain pieces into a yin yang form. The yin or raised stainless steel side had a circular opening where water bubbled up then ran down a slide to the open-pool reservoir on the yang side. Positioning the fountain at the end of the tile near the outlet, I poured water from the pitcher into the reservoir.

Kitten ears twitched.

I emptied the water from Laura’s bowl into the reservoir and set the empty bowl beside the fountain. If the kittens didn’t have an alternative, maybe they would try the fountain. I plugged it in.

Water gurgled from the top, trickled down the slide, and pooled in the reservoir. Gurgling added a calming ambiance to the room.

Ande, the outgoing kitten that ran to greet visitors first, thumped to the floor and scampered to within a foot of the fountain.

Rills, the adventurer, followed.

Gilbert, the cautious kitten, stood on a sofa pillow and arched his back.

Okay, the kittens didn’t sense the calm, but maybe the gurgling would tempt them to drink.

Ande stepped to the fountain and stared. He bent his head toward the bubbling water. Splash. Water smacked his nose. He leaped back and glared. Stepping forward, stepping back, circling, and stepping forward, he wound his way to the fountain a second time. Moving slower than a woods turtle, he bent his head. Splash. Water smacked his nose. He scampered to the safety of my log chair.

Rills tail twitched. With an arched back, he inched forward and bent toward the bubble. Splash. Water smacked his nose. He jumped back, swiveled, and leaped into the chair beside Ande. They curled around each other and napped.

Gilbert at the Fountain

Gilbert looked from his brothers to the fountain. As if stalking an insect, he eased off the sofa and crept to the fountain. He crouched―no pouncing, no bubble nosing―then he crept away.

Time, I told myself, give them time.

Two hours later, though the kittens had stalked the fountain off and on, they hadn’t lapped its water. Instead, they licked the empty ceramic bowl.

Dropping to his hands and knees, Spence gave a wobbly-rendition of a cat crawl to the fountain. He lowered his head and popped his lips. Smack, smack, smack.

Ande and Rills scampered under Spence and cocked their heads for a better view of his wacky-lip smacking.

Spence dipped his finger into the water and held the dripping digit in front of Ande. “See? Water.” Spence smacked his lips twice. “Drink.”

Ande pawed Spence’s muscle shirt.

Spence dipped his finger again and stretched it to Rills.

He sniffed Spence’s finger then jumped on Ande’s tail.

Room, I told myself. Give them room.

While I folded laundry and pretended not to watch, Rills strode to the fountain. He pawed the water. Splashes hit the tiles.

Sheesh. Water messes would continue. Resigned to become puddle-wiper-in-chief, I sighed.

Lap-lap-lap blended with my sigh. Rills had lowered his head to the pooled water and lapped a long drink. Success! Maybe he’d stop splashing when he learned to drink from the bubble-splashing side. And soon his brothers would imitate Rills fountain drinking.

By bedtime, they hadn’t.

Spence carried the pitcher to the bowl.

“Don’t fill it,” I yelled. “They need to learn to drink from the fountain.”

Spence poured water. “I don’t want them dehydrating.”

Three kittens raced to the ceramic bowl. Ande and Rills nudged each other to gulp water. Gilbert wrapped his tail around his legs and waited for a turn.

When they’d all drunk, I laid a place mat under the bowl to catch the splashes.

Spence Coaxing Ande and Rills

Saturday, Spence and I both dropped to our knees. Clutching Ande around the middle, Spence held Ande over the bubbling water. Ande squirmed and escaped between Spence’s legs.

Holding Rills, I flicked my finger in the water then held it to his lips. He squirmed loose and backed away.

The fountain gurgled.

The cats drank from Laura’s bowl.

Sunday, morning, while I typed this saga, both Rills and Gilbert lapped a few tongue-fulls from the open-pool side of the fountain. Ande put his nose to the bubble and slowly walked away.

Spence picked up Ande and held him to the calm side. “Your brothers drank. You can too.”

Ande turned his head from the fountain to the ceramic bowl.

Spence followed the kitten’s gaze. “Oh. It’s empty.” He put Ande down and fetched the pitcher. As water splashed into the ceramic bowl, three kittens surrounded it.

Ande lap-lap-lapped.

Rills lap-lap-lapped.

Gilbert lap-lap-lapped.

The kittens needed time and room to adjust to people. They will need time and room to switch from Laura’s bowl to the fountain.

Patience, I told myself. You need patience.

And a mop.

Rills Lapping Water