One day, a cat who looked exactly like Arturo showed up: R4. (Yes, there is an R3; keep reading.) Less bold than his predecessors, R4 was easy-going, even nonchalant.
We weren't the only ones charmed; R4 was attended by a young girlfriend. Arturo had himself an entourage. Our cats were flat-out disgusted.
Arturo and his crew didn't meow. They squeaked, trilled, yipped, rasped, clicked, barked, quacked, and yowled (especially when the vacuum cleaner came out). They asked questions, made polite remarks, and issued insistent reminders now and then. But “meow” was not in their vocabulary.
Meanwhile, Arturo's expeditions brought him to the door at the top of the basement stairs, where he planted his flag and parked himself. He began to hurl himself ahead of us whenever we appeared, "figure-eighting" us madly with trills and coos.
At mealtime he stretched up and gently tapped the rows of cans, reminding us where the food was kept. If his favorite food wasn't forthcoming (and who knew what that would be each night), he offered reproving glances and, after checking out what the other diners were getting, satisfied himself with what was available.
It seemed he didn't want to be a bother. “What a wonderful cat,” we said. “What a sweet, cooperative, clever, playful cat you are.”
Our cats rebuffed Arturo's whole crew, both the squatters and the nonresident lookalikes who sometimes congregate by the back gate before breakfast. With steady glares, they decreed that these boorish trespassers – starting with Arturo – be banished without further ado.
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