Arturo came from the same colony, but left his littermates early on when he realized he could follow the food instead of waiting for it to come to him every day.
At first he was low-key, ambling into the yard and stationing himself near a bolt-hole as he observed the cats' hierarchy. He was occasionally challenged and roundly unwelcome.
So he switched to Plan B: he scaled the roof. By climbing through the attic of the derelict building next door he gained access to all the rooftops on our side of the block. Whenever he would see us outside or hear us talking anywhere, he'd yowl piteously. We made a few thickheaded rescue attempts, even anchoring a king-size sheet knotted jailbreak style to the third-floor porch rail. Arturo politely observed every step of our senseless schemes but disdained all ministrations. Then, he had another way down.
At length, we realized Arturo wasn't stranded on the roof – he was bellowing for us to let him in! He persisted for weeks and weeks, not knowing enough about doors to even realize there wasn't one. Our cats grew edgy as his demands rained down upon them.
Though it seemed like forever to us, Arturo caught on quick. Abandoning the roof, he re-bivouacked groundside. Shouldering past the "no vacancy" signs, he gradually, one by one, evicted most of the resident cats.
By this time, they thoroughly resented this annoying intruder who was a bit too much like the one they'd recently eradicated. They reconciled themselves to settling somewhere shady and sleeping themselves into stupor. Once the sun slipped below the horizon they would trudge out and flop down on the concrete, radar-sweeping their ears for bugs just starting to buzz the night sky.
Arturo stood sentry. From his back door post, he served as doorman and bouncer, deciding which cats could come in and how long they could stay. Depending on whim, some cats were admitted, others barred completely. The elect were consistently the ones who most resembled him.
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