I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve always been a bit, well, “eccentric,” for lack of a better word. This eccentricity includes being a clean freak. All my animals think a shop vac is an electric pet toy. My ferret Jackie used to wrestle with it. He’d charge it, and if he didn’t time it right, his little head got sucked in the tube. Then I’d have to turn it off, and his head would pop out like a jack in the box. He’d get re-oriented, eye the vac hose and attack it once again while he chattered away kicking with his little piston like legs.

Fostering these shelter cats is bringing out a whole new dimension to my personality that I never knew existed. Due to the mutant strains of viruses that are thriving in the Anderson Animal Shelter, I have become germ-o-phobic. I used to roll my eyes at people who were overly concerned with germs. Not any more. My hands are about to rot off my wrists from washing them with antiseptic soap and Clorox. I am bound and determined that my cats in the other part of the house will not get sick. I change clothes when I come out of the sun room and go through a little cleaning ritual every time. I use rubber gloves when cleaning the cat boxes and wear flip-flops that stay in the sun room.  

I have seen and cleaned up more kinds and textures of cat snot and soupy poopy than I ever thought possible. The good news is the cats are getting better and can now breathe through their nostrils. So this is good. Too bad the other end doesn’t get a little plugged up.

This leads me to the Persian cat that a reader called me about a week ago. He had been hanging around her friends’ house for about a week. The cat wanted in their house. I told her I’d take it, using the mentality of what’s one more, and oh, a Persian would be easy to adopt. Her friends delivered him to the vet to get shots, wormed and examined. I had planned on picking him up that day but had to wait until the next day due to work. It’s a good thing.

The darling little Persian has ringworm. Ahhhhhhhhhh. That stuff spreads like wild fire. I’ve had it. I don’t know to this day how I got it, just that I don’t ever want it again. To treat animals that have ringworm, they have to be secluded, usually caged, and bathed in special shampoo 2-3 times a week for a month. And no, I didn’t have people knocking down my door to take care of this cat once they knew what it involved, especially if they had other animals. And I was clear that I was not doing it. I was certain it would push me over the edge.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that, before any treatment can begin, the cat has to be shaved to the skin. Ever shaved a cat? No one wanted us in their veterinary clinic or their groom shop to shave this little guy naked. And I understood. As a last resort, we used my garage. A friend agreed to do the deed. Another friend agreed to take care of him for a month and do the treatments. I just had to survive the infected ringworm fur that would be flying everywhere.

It was this day that I realized just how neurotic I had become. I bought plastic painters tarps, duct tape, rubber gloves and lots of Clorox. I set up an X pen in my garage and draped it with the tarps. I had thought I would put a plastic bag on my head and use duct tape to secure it. I thought it was a good idea. I didn’t want that mess in my hair. I asked them if they wanted one as well. They did not. My friends looked at me like I had lost my mind and threatened to bring their cameras.

I had everything planned — after we were done shaving the cat and it was safely crated in my friend’s car and headed to Indianapolis, I would clean up the garage, put my clothes in the plastic bag I had previously put next to the door into my house and then would dash to the shower to wash off ringworm juice. Things were going like clockwork; the garage smelled like a Clorox factory.

I stripped down and yes, the garage door was closed, and I was prepared to streak through my house. Problem: The door into my house was locked. I was trying to determine if any of my neighbors would notice — it was dusk after all — if I ran to my front door naked. I didn’t want to put those contaminated clothes back on. Think of the germs.

With my finger on the electric garage door opener, shaking because I was so cold, I realized I was nuttier than a fruitcake. I put the least contaminated clothes on and went into my house back into the garage (with the door open), pulled the clothes off, put them in the bag in the garage and then toted it to the washer (which was full of Clorox), and then sprinted for the shower.

It’s been a week and I’ve yet to see any of those nasty round red spots sprout on any part of my body. I’m attempting not to wash my hands as much so that I can believe I’m not completely whacko. The cat has been adopted and will go into his new home after his monthlong treatment. The friend who is caring for the cat who made such fun of me? Well, he looks like a surgeon when he bathes the cat. Mask and all. And he was laughing at me?

Maleah Stringer, president of the Animal Protection League, is an animal massage therapist specializing in esoteric healing. She can be reached at maleahstringer@aol.com.