We are in a condition of diplomatic stalemate. I am still having to Cox-And-Box Torvald and the Home Team of Nickel and Mr. Ferguson, rotating closed doors in the house twice a day so that everyone has some time with Mom (that’s me). Torvald is conspicuously alpha-cat, in a gregarious, non-combative way; he just won’t get out of Fergie’s face, and Fergie, who had to contend with some really tough cats when he was a vagabond, hasn’t got the equanimity to deal with it. He hunkers and moans. Nickel Catmium, surprisingly, shrieks and then hides under furniture. And all the time Torvald is just sitting on his hunkers, or reclining on the carpet, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. He’s a big, klutzy, head-butting, amiable goof.
I never expected this hostility from the gallant Fergie, who has hitherto been a compendium of feline virtues, grooming his girlfriend, burying smartly in the litter box, adoring his human Mommy. In fact, since Torvald’s advent, he adores her even more. He sits on me. He purrs loudly. He mews winsomely. He is a neurotic, Woody-Allen-like bundle of insecurity.
When he is not annexing me he pointedly stakes his claim to his girlfriend.