feline drama in one act
Wednesday 16 July 2008 | I like a cookie
In the midst of an email to Mandarin (who has, inshallah, managed to find a kind hematologist knowledgeable about low ferritin), I heard Pyewacket wailing and carrying on outside. Strange behavior for her, because she’s so fat voluptuous and otherwise uninterested in local politics, especially when it’s this hot; she normally just lolls under the oleanders and watches it all go by. But I could hear all this yodeling and warbeling, all this feline grueling and smarling—and then Finny started to bark too, so I thought I’d better go check just in case she was, you know, surrounded or something.
In fact, a tinyTinyTINY black kitteh, about one-tenth her size, had Ms. P. completely cornered on the front porch. They had obviously tangled once already because Pye was quivering indignantly and her entire front was thoroughly beslimed with unbelievably smelly feral catspit.
When he saw me, Tiny Kitteh puffed himself up into maximum volume, fluffy with rage and groaning murderously.
“WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA,” he informed both of us threateningly, waving a single paw splayed out like a catcher’s mitt (with tufts of Pye-fur stuck in his wee claws). I sidled toward them, trying to think how to remove her from the tableau without escalating matters. “WORRAWORRAWORRA!” he added, at a higher pitch, for my benefit.
Pye hissed back without much conviction. I could tell that this display of ferocity did not leave her unimpressed, but neither was she quite prepared to cede the valuable two feet of territory between herself and the cat flap.
I thought for a second, then lightly touched her ribcage on the side of her closest to Kitteh. She jumped a few feet into the air, spitting indiscriminately, and scrambled in the opposite direction. I was left alone with Tiny Kitteh, whom I faced sternly despite his being eyewateringly redolent of dead bird.
“Go away,” I said, stamping my foot on the porch concrete for emphasis. “It’s over! Psssst! Scoot!”
“WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA,” he said again, not a bit scared. His little foot kept wiping circles in the air, as if casting a spell.
We continued to glare at one another as I backed away, collecting a still-hissing Pye en route. Inside I washed and dried her off and thanked Bastet that she got her shots three days ago. Once she was settled down and licking herself sulkily, I peeked through the cat flap: stinky Kitteh was gone. Though I have seen his tabby brethren and sistren these last hours, creeping around with their ears flattened to their skulls, hellbent on survival.
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