My mom has a huge backyard with a creek and a stream running through it. The creek is a real creek that is six feet deep and pretty wide. The stream is glorified run-off, but it can reach waist high if the season has been wet enough. One winter I was out in the backyard playing, and my cats being more like dogs had followed me running and frolicking in the snow. I knew where the frozen little stream was and ran right around it avoiding icy danger completely. My cats did not. They tackled each other right on the ice, and with a horrible cracking noise, all three cats disappeared into the freezing water.
Me being me, I jumped into the waist high water after them. It was quite possibly the coldest thing I have ever felt in my life. I made a big enough hole in the ice that three kitty heads appeared next to me howling. I grabbed the cats one by one and shoved them down my coat. If you’ve never had three cats down the front of your winter coat, I would not recommend it. You know the part in Alien where the guy’s stomach is ripped open by an evil alien? I know his pain. I broke through the ice and crawled back out of the water. The cats did NOT like this. But I couldn’t let them out of my coat to freeze. So I endured the scratching and biting all the way back up to the house.
I dropped the dripping, yowling cats onto the living room floor. They all curled up underneath the woodstove while I dabbed the blood from my stomach. I still have those scars, but I don’t think my cats even remembered the time I saved them from a watery death. So much for feline gratitude. Apparently putting them in a tub to save them from a tornado or stuffing them in my coat so they don’t freeze are just unique forms of torture. Go figure.