After shutting the last two toes of my left foot in the porch door, earlier this week, I decided the day couldn’t get any worse and attempted one of the periodic titrating exposures that I hope will get my two male cats on the same page before I introduce Torvald directly to Nickel the Bengal, who being a Bengal is insane.

(I am morally certain neither of the toes is broken, though I was unsure about the pinky one, which I am always mangling, on the first day. But it is only purple.)

Fergie, he of the ginger blotches and jauntily curved tail, was dozing in a chair a few feet from the closed door to the upstairs when I released Torvald from his cellar boudoir. Torvald first moseyed, then hurtled up to the dining room, only to find that the slightest sound of his advent had provoked Fergie to claw the door open frantically and shoot upstairs. Bad move, as this left the ever-curious and violently gregarious Torvald a straight shot at the top-floor sanctum. Fergie stood ready to stave him off. I got to the top of the stairs just in time to witness a Warner Brothers collision of gray and ginger forms, emitting snarls, yowls, burst collars complete with tags, and flying bits of fur in all color gradations.

Torvald came to rest under the bed. Fergie hunkered, as he does on these occasions, on the scatter rug a few feet away uttering moans of contumely.

Torvald settled on his side, regarding Fergie insouciantly and rather speculatively. The moans continued.

Finally Torvald seemed to decide that this was a mug’s game and that his best move was to wander from under the bedframe and back downstairs. With admirable, relaxed unconcern, he sauntered toward the top of the staircase, actually resting one paw on the edge of the top step.

Then hurtled, fracasso!!! back three yards in a reverse split second, colliding with the stunned Fergie in a final display of  ambush superiority before allowing me to transport him (with great misgivings) down the stairs to let everyone recover.

Stinker. But after six months of hostility from the home team I can hardly blame him.


18 thoughts on “Collisions

  1. Torvald sounds a lot like you. Could explain your apparent partiality toward him. I agree with Richard about your umpiring credentials.

  2. Oh, I can’t wait for the posts that will ensue once NIckel is involved in all of this. The other day I was watching my little weasel fiend Bengal as she dismantled my printer (with her hands, of course) and I asked the Amazon, rhetorically, “Why do I have this thing?” To which she replied, gravely, “You brought it here to be your friend.” Well, that was my first mistake, right there.

    • This evening, I released Torvald from purdah only to hear unearthly shrieks a few minutes later. Nickel was atop a seven-foot-high bookcase beneath what is known as the “mouse mine,” a section of the celar’s acoustic ceiling where mice probably nested once, and Torvald was swarming up the side of the shelving, completely unflustered by sounds that would have arrested a fully armed SWAT team in their tracks.

      I removed him, gingerly.

        • No kidding. Now I have found a small battle wound, slightly infected, on Fergie’s chest which I missed when checking him over after the initial collision. I think it’s a matter for hot compresses and not whole body antibiotics and vet hassling, but have to watch it. Torvald is in the dog house. It looks like he inflicted an oblique gouge with one fang. Fergie is not really perturbed about it except when I hold the warm Epsom salt poultice on it, which counts as messing with him.

          • So after all the fierce hunter went for the jugular? That is homicidal. Perhaps the Hispanos were keeping him out for a reason, no?

          • I prefer to think that Torvald picked up some of the gang-forming, swaggering bad manners that characterize that social layer hereabouts and will eventually acquire some better habits. But I am keeping them apart again.

  3. Well, most Quebecers believe in rehabilitation and social reinsertion. I do hope you succeed because Torvald is a rascal but a lovely rascal.

      • I don’t know. The U.S. mind set is so different from ours. Besides, I could work with toughs being reasonably certain that no one would pull a gun. Down your way, not so sure. It would be a bit unnerving for me.

        • The ubiquity of guns in America is somewhat exaggerated abroad.

          While it is not unheard of for a high-schooler to get hands on a gun, the ones around here are more likely to get violent with baseball bats, pieces of pipe or their fists, of which only the fists could be smuggled into a conference with a youth counselor. You have a greater chance of finding a gun strapped under the shoulder of a local Republican, who will discourse to you at length about the need for law-abiding citizens to be allowed to defend themselves.

          There are times I would not argue with them (our friend Zeus spent many hours in shops at night hereabouts, making up bank deposits or doing the books on valuable inventory of the kind thieves would love, and he used to pack a 9mm Smith and Wesson, So far as I know he only ever discharged it at a large rat). Most of them, though, strike me as sad, misogynistic characters with control issues and an unwholesome zeal for punishment. They probably need counseling but you would not be asked.

          • Regardless of where they live, those guys never ask for counselling, they don’t even know they have a problem. The others are the problem not them.

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