WHEN I HEARD that a couple of Spanish gents had invented an automatic washing machine for cats, I greeted the news with the sort of credulity I usually reserve for reports of peace on earth, discovery of the fountain of youth and the invention of edible Brussels sprouts.

Not that it wouldn't be welcomed - a cat washer, I mean. It certainly would mean an end to a human chore that is marginally more hazardous than the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, a nudist campout on the sunside of Mercury or bicycling in Rome traffic wearing a tutu.

Many a hospital emergency ward bears bloody testimony to the folly of trying to effect a contact between little Tiddles and bath water. The skin grafts can take years, and the scars are likely to last until you are six feet under and the epidermis falls off your bones.

Still, Eduardo Segura and Andres Diaz claim their new machine "is safer and less stressful for pets than washing them by hand." So is sticking your fingers in a meat grinder and practicing bigamy with a quartet of female wrestlers, but never mind.

Eduardo and Andres call their gadget a Lavakan, which I'm told roughly translates into "dog washer." It stands about five feet tall and five feet wide, and they describe it as "industrial strength," which means they at least recognize the enormity of the task at hand.

What happens is that the cat or dog is inserted into the washer (this in itself is best viewed as a form of Russian roulette), which has a series of nozzles that wash and massage Tiddles and Rover from nose to tail.

There's more: "Operators use a touch panel to choose the best wash cycle for the animal's size and dermatological needs. Pesticide soaps, for example, require an extended period to kill fleas and ticks."

"Extended period?" If this treatment were meted out to Angel Gabriel, our oversized tabby kitten, the Lavakan would be turned into something fit only for the scrap heap in about 3.52 minutes, "industrial strength" or no.

Eduardo and Andres seem oblivious to the perils that any cat owner who survives the experiences knows all too well when it comes to laundering felines. Whatever, the soap, rinse and dry cycles take slightly less than half an hour, by which time the police, paramedics and insurance adjusters should have arrived.

Maybe there's something in the air of Spain that removes the mind about 12 degrees from reality, but the two inventors are convinced that what the cats and dogs are getting with the Lavakan is "the same satisfaction as humans get from a shower massage."

"Have you ever had a water massage?" Andres asked an interviewer. "That's just what it feels like."

Somehow, I doubt that Tiddles and Rover and their brethren and sistern would echo that sentiment. I do know that I would want to be about six miles to the left of the large glass door to the Lavakan when someone opens it to let the occupants out.

Says Carlos Suhr, president of PetClean USA, who plans to launch a chain of pet launderettes from sea to shining sea: "The Lavakan is really unbelievable." D'accord.

This is not to dismiss lightly the fact that dogs and even some cats I've known could well do with a bit of cleanliness and hygiene. Angel Gabriel, for instance, is prone to bad breath, probably due to the fact that he'll eat every bug in sight, and what Ali Magraw, our very elderly tortoise shell cat, does to a litter tray could be bottled for gas warfare.

The question is just how to go about it, if indeed you are desperate/silly/suicidal enough to really want to wash your cat. I'm indebted to a bit of anonymous advice I found on the Internet, from someone who evidently does know a bit about cats ("Your cat has the advantage of smarts, quickness and total lack of concern for you ...").

First, you have to dress for the occasion, and the author advises a 4-ply rubber wet suit, with helmet, face mask and welder's gloves. (I'd suggest the sort of space suit the astronauts would wear on Venus, but to each his/her own.)

Have the kitty soap and towel ready, and remember, no blow drying, unless you really don't mind seeing your skin in half-inch wide strips spread over the bathroom floor, walls and ceiling.

Run the water and get everything ready "so you can reach it even if you are face down or prone in the tub." Next, get your cat, and if he or she is exceedingly stupid, they'll think you are taking them to the food bowl and not to watery purgatory.

Now move fast - shut the bathroom door, step into the shower, close the sliding doors, drop cat into the water, squirt the soap onto whatever part of him is still above the water line, and scrub.

Remember that cats have no handles, plus this one now has soapy fur, so using your welder's gloves "try to field his body as he catapults through the air toward the ceiling."

By this time, your cat will be sliding down the glass enclosure into the tub, where he will fall into the water and rinse himself. But don't try the whole procedure again. "The cat will realize the lack of traction on the glass and will launch the next attempt on the first available part of you."

Time now to dry him off. Continues the advice: "Open bathroom door, put towel-wrapped cat on floor and step back quickly - into tub, if possible - and do not open enclosure until all you can see is the shredded towel."

Finally, it should be safe to exit the bathroom in about two hours or so. But beware: "Your cat will be sitting out there somewhere, looking like a small hedgehog while plotting revenge."

Good luck, bon chance, Godspeed and make sure hospital care and accidental death insurance are paid up. And if you survive, you might consider getting a gerbil next time.

Thought for the Week: Time is the best teacher, except that it kills all its students.

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