I can’t help but wonder if it’s a tad early to be opening, this just our second season in business but being new to the industry, I guess the neighbourhood cats will dictate when the shenanigans will begin and will set the hours of operation for our feline deck brothel. It does make sense that March 21st (first day of spring) was what they were waiting for.
I am watching a disgusting looking, all brown cat moan from the top of the stairs while he or she wags his or her tail across the wooden floor. Forgive me. I’m not sure if the man does the howling or the woman, having been confused by the reproductive habits of seahorses on our recent vacation.
Hornsour stays close to the door leading into the house. A door she will never enter, a house whose comforts she will never enjoy. She has lived on the deck for the better part of two years, perhaps this big, ugly, brown beast is one of her parents, perhaps a suitor, maybe it’s the cat version of Grace from Annie bringing promises of a better life, I have no idea. I do know, if a scrap of food is thrown to Hornsour, the bully comes running and robs her of whatever we burned for dinner. Maybe it’s Miss Hannigan and not Grace after all.
I was convinced (foolishly) the brown guy was just one cat. Then yesterday, I noticed brown guy standing next to his identical twin. They were both standing tall, not moving a hair their whiskers were touching, noses almost touching. I have no idea if this is a mating ritual or an initiation into Fight Club (the after-hours club also hosted here on the deck running anytime after midnight, closing up for romping hours sometime mid-morning).
There’s usually a loud skirmish over the noon hour and then again in the middle of the night. Perhaps an argument over someone wanting to drive and the others suggesting they call a cab, I wonder if Toonces the driving cat from Saturday Night Live is still on speed dial?
A third brown cat approached the pair of frienemies, Hornsour rubbing her exposed bum hole against my glass door staking her claim to urinate, shed hair and hurl portions of dead animals under our outdoor dining set. I guess a gig like that is worth defending.
When I’ve had enough, I walk out the door, Hornsour hides and the others run off. Within three minutes, they are all slinking back up the stairs thinking I’m far too stupid to look out the window a second time.
If we’re really going to allow this to continue for another year, I’m going to have to dig out the “No Vacancy” sign.
