Feline Warriors

He would kill himself before he'd relinquish his throne.

by Bruce Schimmel

Sectarian violence has breached the peace of our home. World-class strife has taken over our Society Hill apartment, and even now its factions are preparing for battle. As soon as they finish their afternoon naps.

The protagonists in this combat are our cats. Please, laugh not. Do not be deceived by mere outward appearances. For in a post-millennial world that bristles with lethal symbols, our animals have been inducted as soldiers in a sacred war.

Or so my wife and I have imagined. We've recast our fur balls as holy warriors, in part because it makes their howling and occasional hurling a bit more palatable. And because, in their own way, our animals make for a curious fable for our times.

Like many disputes, this war is about turf, and of course makes dim sense only to the combatants. Mind you, we have plenty of turf to go around. Three cats, two people; our 1,200-square-foot apartment should be big enough to satisfy all.

But when you add the volatile elements of family, class and race (all right, breed), it seems no place can contain these creatures' inbred rage. Indeed, our animals' rivalry embodies the same confrontations that trouble us all: East vs. West, pedigreed vs. common, gang vs. loner.

Sleeping in one corner, we have our Oriental shorthairs. Similar to Siamese, these two cousins sport sleek coats of single hues. The girl has lavender fur with hints of rose; the boy is a solid chocolate, the color of strong coffee.

Their formal titles (derived from the name of their cattery) are Lokicats Ruby and Lokicats Java. These are pedigreed creatures who come complete with long and heavily incestuous family trees, whose twisted limbs would rival English royalty, though whose history, one hopes, is less bloody.

In the other corner is Bob. Bob was born in rural Delaware, in a double-wide trailer he shared with a passel of kids who named him. Bob is all-American, with parts from all of America. He's a mash-up of orange tabby and silver mackerel, with a heavy dose of spooky black cat.

As far as Java and Ruby are concerned, Bob is not a cat. They're lean, he's chunky. They're rangy, he's stubby. An insult to their very, uh, felinity, they treat him like an infection.

And for a time, all was right in our world — while Bob kept his distance. This meant staying well away from that most holy of places, the sacred berth of the gods, my wife's and my bed.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Bob had the temerity to take a snooze on my pillow.

Immediately, Java struck back. Not with violence, because as a scion of privilege, Java doesn't actually fight. Instead, he threw the feline equivalent of a royal fit by unloading torrents of urine on my pillow.

The Pissher King, we called him. Cowardly and impotent. But very clever. Like a petty Third World despot, he widened his uncivil war by drawing in an outsider. Me.

Fair-minded human that I am, I made the bed off-limits to all. I covered my pillow with a towel that was misted with cat-away spray. And for a while, it worked. Kind of.

Unable to demolish the site of his anguish, the Pissher King set about destroying himself. Veterinarians call it "contact dermatitis." Java started licking his asshole so fiercely that he gouged great bloody holes in his behind. He would kill himself before he'd relinquish his throne.

The Pissher King had become Baron Bare Butt, whose will I had to obey. He held me hostage. And so, I became Java's enforcer, chasing Bob from the bed whenever the Orientals were otherwise engaged in the important work of eating, pooping or puking.

Still Bob kept coming back to my pillow, and I kept tossing him off. I felt so bad that I even considered giving him away. Silly me. It turns out my cats had different plans.

Because on my recent return from a short trip to Chicago, my wife reported that all three felines cautiously but uneventfully shared the bed without incident.

side of the bed, that is.

In other words, the peace could be kept as soon as the peacekeeper left. Or maybe it's the old story of the powerful staying in place by claiming privilege from the gods. Or maybe a tale about the peacemaking powers of women.

Make of it what you will.

(bruce@schimmel.com)