Clockwork Cat Fight

Every morning, Louie wants out.  He has an important engagement.  He has to fight Boris, one of the other neighborhood cats.  I’ve written about their relationship before.  Humans might recognize it.  It’s a relationship based purely on antagonism.  All they do is fight.  Or wait to fight.  That’s their deal.  Their mutual agreement.  To be sworn enemies.  Forever.

He's late. Hope nothing happened to him.

He’s late. Hope nothing happened to him.

Each AM, Louie patiently waits for Boris to pop his paw up through a warped part of our deck.  That’s the signal to begin a hissing, yowling and howling cat brawl–with each one giving and taking swats while ducking in and away from the fightin’ hole.  It’s an amazing thing to witness. Louie will claw from above.  Boris from below.  They’ll go at it like that for twenty minutes or so, their cries and moans echoing off the lake, which I’m sure the neighbors appreciate.  Ah, the soothing sounds of nature.  “Dear God, is somebody strangling a baby out there?!”

Sorry about that, but you never saw Marlon Perkins or Jim run out and try to break up a cheetah fight on Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.  Oh hell no.  They stayed put–crouching behind some bush.  At least Jim did, while Marlon had his ass cheek parked on a TV studio desk in Nebraska.  The point is they only observed.  If they ever did deal with some lion, it was with a tranquilizer dart.  Tag his ear and set him free.  Back to a life of tearing apart Gazelles.  Eating.  Banging lionesses.  Eating.  Napping.

Back to nature.

And Nature always takes Its course.  Eventually, Louie and Boris grow tired or bored of the sparring, cease fire, and go their separate ways.  Until next time.

I’m glad they’ve decided to fight like this, with each cat relatively protected from the other.  It’s better than when they used to free-style it top-side.  That’s when they would really fuck each other up.  Fur tornado shit.  I’d feel compelled to run out all clapping and flapping trying to break them up.  Cat fights, whether in a whorehouse bar or on a sunny patio deck, are hard to break up, and it’s easy for a well-meaning bystander to get hurt.

So this is better.  And they came up with it on their own.  It’s a morning ritual I’ve learned to tolerate.  Even respect.  They obviously both need it.  Or Louie wouldn’t wait.  And Boris wouldn’t show up.  Right on time.

On his way to an ass-kicking

On his way to an ass-kicking

One morning, I saw the Blonde Beast hurrying over from across the street.  He was a little late for his appointment.  I figured I’d prevent him from showing up at all, thereby making Louie winner by default.  A victory without violence.  So I chased Boris off with a bullwhip and a club with a big rusted nail through it.  Then I went inside and looked out on the patio.  There was Louie.  Waiting.

Waiting for his hit of Ultra-Violence.  From his favorite enemy.

But now waiting in vain.

Because I ruined it.

I robbed the fight.

And denied him the fur-bristling rush.

It fucking broke my heart.

What have I done?  Me and my misguided do-gooderism.  That’s when I decided, if the boys want to fight, let ’em.

Scarred but not scared and ready for more.

Defending the Motherland from inside his pillbox bunker.

I remember when I was in 7th grade, I was trading trash-talk with this other kid, Mark Koroknay.  We were at the Lakeside Village pool and my mom was there.  She told us we should duke it out and that she would referee.  She lead us to a patch of grass where we could fight.  I remember feeling embarrassed that my mom was taking such an active part of our conflict.  I’m sure Mark was wary of the impartiality of her refereeing.  He didn’t need to be.  My mom reffed a clean fight.

After trading some initial blows, we went down to the ground, where he got me in a headlock.  My mom stood by, waiting for me to either tap-out or turn it, but I couldn’t break out.  The best I could do was to reach around and hit Mark in the side of the head– repeatedly rabbit punch him with my middle knuckle.  The harder he choked, the harder I hit.  It was a classic match-up, The Choke versus the Chinga-su.

We fought like that for a long time.  Planes flew overhead and landed at the airport.  A newly married couple opened up a joint checking account.  A retiree put on a second coat of varnish on a cabinet he built.  Finally, after our shadows grew long enough across the length of the lawn, my mom stepped in and stopped the fight.  She called it a draw, and made us shake hands–which we did.  And that was it.  No hard feelings.

Actually, we became friends after that.  Mark and I used to party together.  He was a cool, funny dude.  If you’re reading this, Mark, good fight, bro.  Was real close to crying “Uncle.”  Maybe my mom did rob you.

Now, I’m not sure if you could extrapolate a Geo-political policy based on these two examples of controlled aggression.  But I could.  That’s because when it comes to extrapolating Geo-political policy, I’m notoriously lazy.  I’d probably spend more time coming up with a jingle for a breakfast food than I would deciding the fate of the free world.

“We don’t have to rush into every conflict to play peacemaker.  That’s a good way to get hurt, and make everybody involved hate you.  Fuck that.  Let ’em fight it out.  But try to make sure nobody gets too hurt,” I’d tell my defense ministers.

Before turning back to rooting for my cat.

“Use your right, Lou.  He’s got a cut over his left eye.  He’s blind to your rights.  Right paw! Right paw!  Now left!”

High on post-fight euphoria.

Strung-out on post-fight euphoria.

13 responses to “Clockwork Cat Fight

  1. Love it. Love it. Love it. Cats, fighting and mum’s that know all kinds of stuff. As for the geo-politics, I say give Vlad and Arseny a pair of gloves and whoever wins keeps the Crimea. (Putin’s not as hard as he thinks he is!)

    • Glad you loved. Perhaps continue to do so.
      I don’t think Putin is as hard as he thinks, but he’s pretty hard. I gotta give him props for rising to the top of the crops. Anybody who becomes the supreme leader of a people, who are no slouches when it comes to ruthless cunnery, has to have something gnarly going for himself. Now, if he can only keep his shirt on for some photos, it won’t look like he’s trying to get laid on Because that has the opposite effect.
      I know.
      That’s my only advice to Vlad. “Keep your shirt on.” And get laid more.
      That is our greatest hope for peace.
      I trust you’re doing your part.
      Trying as well,

  2. At the risk of causing further feline fracas, my initial thought was the have the boys marinate in a snack of Mezcal and catnip just before the next dust-up. That would be YouTube worthy, in my spectacles. The Fuego by The Ferns they may call it. It’s no Rumble in the Jungle, but it might do as an undercard.

    That’s the one thing with the fellas that we have over the kind ladies – once we get into those fisticuffs and end with some sort of respectful bow, it’s over. We don’t get passive-aggressive on Face Book or start salacious rumours involving one’s fidelity or state of virginity. The term “frenemies” is exclusive territory of the womanly sex. But then again, that’s where the comparisons end. After that, it’s all sweet and nice, while we neanderthals continue to drag our knuckles on the daily. But that’s ok – how else are those grooves in the dirt going to get nice and smooth? There’s some sort of noble work in this drag-out-fangs-bearing thing that the kitties do, and kids with moms reffing.

    I’d love to hear that breakfast jingle. It would probably be in D minor, the way that the Russians enjoy their symphonies and Rice Krispies themes. Nothing wrong with a minor key if there’s no major damage to the lock.

    Your final lines reminds me of this scene:

    A bunch of bums!

    Nice to see you post, compadre. I don’t have the energy today to dive into things as I normally do. Stomach flu will do that. Sap you until you have nothing but gut rot and the address for the nearest vomitorium. Good weight loss plan though.

    Keep those pussy cats going, Mr. G. It seems it does them, and the neighbourhood in general, a greater good.


    • First off, it’s great to hear from you, Pauly. I admire the fact you could clack out such a purty comment with a poisoned gut. Says a lot about your grit. I couldn’t do it. If my stomach doesn’t feel good, all bets are off. I am down for the count. So thank you for that.
      And thanks for the clip. I laughed hard at “you’re a tomato!” Great old-school dis.
      Hope by the time you read this, you’ve been sufficiently purged and are feeling shiny and new.
      Lean and clean.
      I spent the week-end with a toothache, which mysteriously disappeared this morning. That’s never happened. Not without at least making my dentist’s monthly car payment. But, for some reason I was given a reprieve. So now, even though today was not the best day of my life, I was grateful for it. Spiritual boy was grateful not to have a toothache.
      Anyway, apropos to this week’s piece, I just found out two close friends got into a nasty fight. So wonderful to hear. Especially since I introduced them.
      All I can do at this point is separate them. Hope they work it out. It’s crazy, Pauly. Wasn’t the point of this week’s thingo all about letting people/cats fight it out?
      Do I listen to myself? Fuck no. I have to at least appoint myself bouncer/referee. Worm my way between them and shout them back to their neutral corners. Check in with the ring physician. Somehow get into the middle of it.
      It sucks. I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with all this while having a toothache. Because that would up my chances of saying something snarly and getting it knocked out. I’ve found that I’m a lot more irritable with a toothache. It’s a quirk of mine.
      So, even though this situation, upon first or fifteenth glance appears to be the worst, I know it’s not. If only because it doesn’t include a toothache. And who knows what else? What else this situation doesn’t include, that makes it not be “the worst”–like body bags, or attorneys. So spiritual boy is grateful his friends haven’t killed each other. Or filed retraining orders. Om ha!
      There’s always something to rejoice about.
      No stomach flu! Hooray motherfuckers! Top of the world, Ma!
      Top of the world alright. You should see the view, Pauly. I should buy some land up here and build like a drive-thru monastery or something.
      So beautiful it is.
      Okay, now it’s my turn to apologize for the hit-and-run. I’m not fully present right now–being all blissed-out in sublime peace and all.
      I hope you understand.
      In the general direction of the greater good,

    • You are, of course, referring to my powerful bicep in that pic. Even though that wouldn’t sum up anything. Perfectly or not.
      So you’re talking about the cat, right? Yeah. Figured. Everybody loves the cats. Great for them.
      Why isn’t anyone kissing me?

  3. I totally agree with your assessment of the geo-political situation, it is like when folks would come between my brother and me, we would put up with it for a little while then we would turn on the well meaning person, whip them, then return to our battles. Russia and the Ukraine have a long and complex history and they need to settle things themselves. Just as long as they don’t destroy the Monastery of the Caves in Kiev in all of their dispute, I want to visit that place one day.

    • Had to look up the Monastery of the Caves in Kiev. Kiev-Pechersk Lavra. Beautiful domes. I can see why a pilgrimage is in order, JR. I think they’ll be okay. If they survived Hitler, they can survive Putin. At least he’s Orthodox, right? Can’t see him allowing any mortars being dropped on one of the treasures of his faith.
      Now having said that, I feel strangely uneasy–given the history of my pronouncements.
      But I can’t alwaysbe wrong. Can I?

  4. For some reason that got me thinking of, “you don’t have to attend every gun fight you’re invited to.” Nor do we have to bust up someone else’s.

    Besides, sparring can be good exercise too. Just protect the head. Don’t need any kitty concussions.

    Fab writing, as always.

    • I just don’t seem to get invited to too many gun fights anymore, Christy. I’m trying not to take it personally, but it’s hard. It’s hard because I take everything personally. Why wouldn’t I? If I’m the one experiencing it. As far as I’m concerned, that makes it personal. So there in, is the rub.
      I’m confidant my superior powers of Insight and Wisdom will someday undo this Gordian knot, but in the meantime, I’m going to eat peanuts and watch this fight. Two welterweights. One has a trident and a net. The other access to the internet.
      Anyway, thanks for writing, C, and sorry for my tardiness in my response. I’ve been off my on-line routine. Between opening a new gladiator school and refereeing kid’s league cage match, my social media time has suffered.
      But haven’t we all. Suffered.
      Bull-caping saber tooth tigers in Rome,

      • We never want to go to the party until we’re not invited. One of life’s big mysteries. … Like those big ships that come in bottles and like the filling in Twinkies. How do they get them in there?

        Take care, M!

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