It began innocently enough, with an omelet and a whisker. On a sleepy Tuesday morning, as I hovered groggily over the skillet, ignoring the disappointed stare of my cat Dewie—roommate, confidante, and furry grooming guru—I noticed a rogue whisker embedded defiantly in my eggs. It curled upward smugly, as if aware of some secret cosmic joke. I shrugged, flicked it away, and kept eating, unaware that this whisker was the catalyst for an impending feline metamorphosis.
Over the next few days, something odd took hold. I began licking my thumb before turning pages. Soon after, I found myself unconsciously grooming crumbs from my fingertips instead of using a napkin. Dewie watched approvingly as the changes intensified. Before I knew it, my tongue had become my all-purpose cleaning utensil.
In no time, my grooming routine mirrored Dewie’s with astonishing precision, frequency, and thoroughness. Cats, you see, are compulsive self-cleaners, dedicating nearly half their waking hours to this vital ritual. Now, so was I.
My mornings became intricate performances of precise grooming. Rather than stumbling into my filthy, tiled shower, I’d stand next to the sink in my bathroom, meticulously cleaning myself like a dedicated house cat. First, I’d lick my hands, thoroughly moistening my palms and fingers, transforming them into formidable cleaning mitts. My paw-licking technique was perfect for addressing trickier spots that my tongue couldn’t reach on its own, like behind my ears, around my eyes, atop my head, and under my chin.
I’d methodically lick my forearms, using long, deliberate strokes to remove any grime or overnight sweat. My tongue—now noticeably rougher with tiny backward-facing barbs, known as papillae—efficiently combed through body hair, capturing loose microscopic debris. It was oddly satisfying. Not only was I impeccably clean, but the act itself brought comfort and relaxation, dramatically reducing stress and anxiety, just like it does for cats.
No longer needing soap, shampoo, towels, or even washcloths, I was truly liberated. Traditional bathing rituals seemed crude and unnecessary compared to the elegant effectiveness of my feline-inspired regimen. Toilet paper became obsolete, replaced by strategic self-licking of my private areas, which not only removed odors but also promoted impeccable hygiene and prevented infections. I found a sense of pride in this meticulous approach.
The commute to work was another prime grooming opportunity. Stopped at red lights, I’d lick my hands to moisten them before smoothing my hair or tidying up my face. Dewie would have been proud. I fully embraced his grooming wisdom, even if the drivers beside me reacted with confusion and mild horror.
At the office, coworkers adapted to my new habits with remarkable ease. Meetings often involved me presenting powerful PowerPoint presentations while casually licking behind my knees, actions that improved circulation, encouraged new hair growth, and offered me genuine relaxation in the high-stress world of investment banking.
But life committed to self-grooming wasn’t without its trials. The most significant occurred on a crowded Tuesday morning in the office breakroom. The now-infamous “Hairball Incident of ‘25.” As colleagues discussed weekend plans over coffee, a sudden tickle in my throat blossomed into a troubling sensation. Initially dismissing it as just a mild irritation, it quickly intensified into a deep, guttural spasming cough. My body hunched involuntarily as I emitted a loud hrrkkk!, followed by increasingly alarming convulsions.
Concerned eyes watched me closely as I retched violently, until—glorp!—I coughed up a compact, densely woven hairball, the natural consequence of swallowing loose hair during my meticulous grooming. The damp hairball sat accusingly on the linoleum floor, and stunned silence filled the room. Todd from accounting prodded it warily with the toe of his polished shoe. Embarrassed but strangely proud, I simply shrugged and said, “It was bound to happen eventually.”
Lunches with clients and executives offered me a fresh opportunity to demonstrate my grooming prowess. Napkins had become unnecessary clutter, replaced instead by my confident licking of fingers between bites and occasional dabs of my tongue to the chin after messy foods. I explained cheerfully to my boss that licking spreads saliva over the skin, aiding temperature regulation through evaporation. Just another feline fact that justified my lifestyle. Miraculously, she nodded approvingly, perhaps impressed by my uniquely feline confidence, and soon our relationship flourished.
Even the gym embraced my feline ways. Rather than awkwardly sweating onto towels, I calmly retreated after workouts onto a yoga mat where I would thoroughly lick my limbs, removing sweat efficiently while stimulating blood circulation. Post-exercise showers were unnecessary relics of the past. Dewie had been right all along. Licking was far superior.
My evenings at home solidified the bond between me and Kate, my incredibly understanding girlfriend. She watched in amusement and mild envy as I meticulously groomed my tailbone area, base-to-tip—an important feline grooming habit that checks for dirt, pests, and maintains silky pubic hair. I’d also carefully attend to each toe and its nails, gently cleaning between them, maintaining impeccable “paw” health.
Kate even began participating occasionally, stroking my hair affectionately as I groomed beside her. She would marvel at my soft, glossy skin, attributing it to the stimulating circulation provided by my self-grooming. Soon, intimate grooming sessions—a social bonding behavior cats regularly engage in to reinforce relationships—became part of our routine, too.
Of course, my feline habits occasionally led to complications. Meeting Kate’s parents for the first time at a five-star restaurant was an elegant affair. Candles flickered warmly as waiters floated by, balancing delicate dishes on their arms. I wore my finest suit, eager to impress. Yet instinctively, between appetizers and the main course, I raised a paw—I mean, my hand—and absently began moistening it with rhythmic licking. Before I knew it, I was diligently cleaning around my face, behind my ears, and even quickly touching up “my boys” deep inside my pants.
Kate’s mother froze, soup spoon hovering midair. Her father cleared his throat nervously. Kate gently squeezed my leg beneath the table, signaling caution, but my commitment was unwavering. Throughout the dinner, I methodically cleaned each finger after every bite, gently licking any crumbs or sauces from my knuckles. In a proud demonstration of grooming efficiency, I meticulously smoothed the sleeves of my jacket using my moistened fingers.
Kate’s parents exchanged glances. Just as I braced for condemnation, her mother surprised me with a polite smile. “You certainly take personal hygiene seriously,” she said gently.
We all relaxed into laughter, the tension evaporating. Her father joined with a hesitant chuckle.
Some people catch colds. Others catch wanderlust. I caught feline cleanliness. And despite the awkward moments, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Dewie watches proudly as I lick away the cares of each day, happier, healthier, and cleaner than ever.
Meow.
