Not too long after we moved here, we were conquered by alley cats, many of them gray – solid gray. These cats were complex creatures: alternately snobby and affable, perturbed and carefree. Beyond this, they were endowed with distinct personalities, unique and eccentric ... except for one solid trait: every last one of them was opinionated and competitive.
We dove into spay/neuter mode, and the stream of gray cats dwindled. Because one skittish female managed to elude us, by-and-by we had a gray cat with a white bib and feet who loved nothing more than to run in and out of our back door.
This bold and fearless gatecrasher was R prime, the first of a series (which we of course didn't know yet). It was a cartoon-worthy, nonstop loop: cat wants in, cat wants out. We started referring to this convivial but hyperactive intruder as Ritalin.
After an extensive search, R1 (now Rita) and a comrade she picked up along the way went to live with a “gentleman farmer.” She would have plenty outbuildings for dramatic entrances and exits, and a [somewhat less than] captive audience of rural felines.
Our cats, former alley residents themselves, slowly settled back into their customary bickering. In the spring, they ran up record body counts in skirmishes with the rats next door. They jostled for the highest sleeping spots inside, and when summer came, for the shadiest spots outside. We breathed a sigh of relief.
That's when Arturo, R2, showed up.
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