• 
• 

Published on December 1, 2007

 "He's gentle," the reader says. "He loves sleeping in laps. He has a great purr. My four other cats love him."

There's a pause, then: "So why has he started spraying all over my house?"

The reader already knows that a male cat sprays to mark his territory, as in: "Whatever I've marked belongs to me." This boy doesn't need to spray, though.

"The house already belongs to him, and my other cats know it." Besides, he's neutered. Territory shouldn't be so much of a priority anymore.

I know exactly what the reader is facing.

Two-year-old Yoyo, the youngest of my cat herd, has been growing increasingly aggressive, especially since we moved from the flat to the townhouse. His special target is my lovely tri-colour Susu. Whenever Yoyo is unhappy, he goes after her, and she's ended up with some nasty bite wounds.

Just recently, to my horror, for the first time in his life Yoyo started spraying my bed. I love cats, but that smell is terrible. Luckily, since Yoyo has been neutered, the smell isn't that strong.

I immediately dump the sheets into a plastic pail filled with one part white vinegar and around five parts water, which pretty much eliminates the smell after a few minutes.

Then I study Yoyo, who looks determined, resolute. He's ready to start on Susu again, who growls at him in warning.

Is Yoyo ill, I wonder? Is he in pain? Is someone else in the household out of sorts? I grab him and check his gums and teeth, run my hands over his body to look for lumps and wounds. Nothing.

Suddenly, a cat from somewhere outside begins a yowl that ends in a ruckus with another cat. Yoyo is immediately energised. He rushes to the ground-floor patio and jumps up to the roost I've set up for him. From this vantage point he growls and brushes out his tail and fur. He's in fighting mode, protecting his turf, even though no strange cat can enter, nor can he get out.

Around an hour later, I look out at him again. His tail is back to normal, but his body is taut. I look more closely. A lovely black-and-white lady is sitting on the wall just outside the chain-link barrier by Yoyo's perch. A few feet away on another outside wall, a marmalade gentleman is staring at Yoyo.

Yoyo begins to work himself into a frenzy. First comes the low moan, then the warning hiss, then, as he locks eyes with Marmalade, he begins screaming ferociously. Marmalade and Tuxedo see me and leave, but Yoyo cannot be calmed.

He rushes up the stairs and pounces on poor, innocent Susu. Amidst all the screaming and yelling, I pull him off. Still under stress, he rushes to his perch on the second-floor patio, but the invaders have disappeared.

Hours later, he calms down, but he still eyes Susu, who readies herself for another attack. Neutered or not, he has territory to defend against friend and foe.

By Laurie rosenthal  

The Nation