релаксация

Rocco, at right, and Gaston, left, seem to have achieved a smackeral of détente.

This seems to be based on Gaston having a new, more complete understanding of the fact that Rocco is the main man, the Feral Porch King, the Cat with No Name ('cept to us).

There were a couple of times, over the past two weeks, when the two of them appeared for meals at the same time. They'd previously been ducking each other (though possibly it was just Gaston avoiding Rocco).

The Amazing Bob tells me that Gaston has a battle cry, a yowl to wake the long departed. So much so that Bob was afraid for our scar ridden warrior. After all, our boy had been, prior to this past summer's mauling, the most peaceful of felines, a push over even.  On one occasion TAB fetched me from my very serious reading (Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Phillips -- I totally recommend it!) 'come quick, I think they may be about to fight!' As Porch Matriarch Supreme (AKA Princess Cat Doormat), I was called in to break it up.

They listen to me. Sure they do. (*snort*)

What did I find? Gaston was puffed up three times his already large Maine Coon Cat size and clearly yelling out harsh epithets (I read his lips. oh yes, I did!). At the same time though, there was definite fear in his eyes.

Conversely, our Rocco was employing his tactical nuke -- the silent, steadfast, promise-of-certain-doom glare. Like Blondie, he can reduce an opponent to quivering puddles of custard with a mere look. Of course, he now rocks a scarred up Robert Mitchum Cape Fear mien so, possibly, he's just letting his blitzkrieg badges 'speak' for him.

How did I get them to stop their threats of war? By bringing out the catnip and Fancy Feast of course. Who can concentrate on hostility when there's weed and grilled tuna feast in gravy?

Not I.