I live in a cat house.  No, not the kind where you can get pussy.  I live in a tiny cottage, about 700 square feet, and I have two cats.  Oscar and Eddie, the twins. 

Manageable, you say?

Well, my brother Bob lives here, too, and he brought his cat, Furby.  Furby is the feline equivalent of the bar brawler who buys everyone a beer after kicking their collective asses.  He LOVES to fight.  He lurks, waiting for another cat to walk by, then pounces.  Afterward, he wants to cuddle and purr.  Furby purrs so loudly it sounds like he’s missing on one cylinder.  He snores, too.

Luckily, both Oscar and Eddie are bigger than Furby, although not nearly as tough.  Oscar is the reigning Alpha Cat, although his position is not incontestable. The most spectacular brawls are between Furby and Eddie, with tufts of fur flying and truly horrific sound effects.

Meanwhile, my niece is staying with her boyfriend, so her two cats have been left with her dad.  Mary and Tabitha are relatively unobtrusive creatures, and they’ve lived with Furby on and off all their lives, so they’re pretty good at flying under his radar.  Mary hangs out in the bathroom, where towels have been moved so that she can hide on a bottom shelf near the heating vent. Tabitha is likely to yowl anytime any other cat gets within a couple of feet of her.  Just lately, Mary has decided I must pick her up and hold her for exactly thirty seconds every time she feels insecure, which is about forty times a day.

Now, I know you’re thinking the place must stink.  It doesn’t.  The males have all been neutered and everyone (feline) goes outside to pee.  But there are a lot of interesting border disputes.  My bed, especially if I am in it, is a hotly contested territory.  Who can be in it, who can be under it, who can lie near my head.  I am occasionally awakened by a middle-of-the-night kitty discussion on this topic.

To top it off, the next-door neighbor has a feral kitten named Ronan who has decided it’s much more interesting over here.  He is small but completely fearless, and will attempt to take the most coveted of the cat toys, the leopard-spotted catnip mouse, away from whoever is currently playing with it.  Also, Ronan meows a lot.  We don’t know what he wants, which he seems to find frustrating.  He’s an eating machine, and will even try to shove Furby out of the way for a turn at the food dish.  Not the smartest idea. 

Which brings up meal times.   It is the one time everyone more or less peacefully coexists, although the order and placement of the food dishes is extremely important.  Furby cannot eat next to Eddie.  Mary has to be on the end.   Tabitha will bolt for the door if anyone looks at her sideways.   You have to watch Oscar to make sure he doesn’t eat too fast and barf it all back up.  Ronan doesn’t have his own dish, but will try to get in there and take bites out of everyone else’s dish while they are eating.

In the middle of all of this lives my brother’s long-suffering, eighteen year old dog, Princess.  Sometimes when she looks at you, you can just tell she’s wondering what she’s done to deserve this.