Last night about 4am I heard the telltale sounds of a kitty dispute on the floor below. I ignored it and went back to sleep. Some time later I was awakened by the blood curdling sound of a cat that was really preparing to do battle. Dazed, I ran downstairs.

Our oldest male cat, Whiskey, is a gorgeous exotic of some kind (see photo). When I ran downstairs and flipped on the lights I saw Whiskey scurrying down to the next level. I didn’t have on my spectacles. It occurred to me that the cats might have been fighting over the right to torment some innocent creature; a small rodent perhaps. Or maybe a bird.

Whiskey ran away so quickly that I thought that he might be in pursuit of his quarry. These kinds of episodes rarely end well. Feathers can be scattered about the house. In the worst cases the slaughtered innocents remain hidden until such time as they are becoming rather pungent beneath the couch or under a table.

So I chased after him with the goal of ending his fun. I have caught many mice while the cats were toying with them. I release the poor little things into the less cruel world outdoors. When I got close to Whiskey he snarled at me like a mountain lion. His fur was all puffed up.

I have known this cat for many years. This vicious response was completely out of character. I got closer and the cat snarled and hissed. Since I wasn’t wearing my glasses I did not realize until I had gotten that close that this hellcat I was chasing was not one of ours. It was a feral. It must have come in through the cat door.

Backing away slowly I went upstairs to get my eyeglasses. Then for the next twenty minutes I tried to get this cat to leave our house. It was utterly, completely terrified. I got it into a corner under a coffee table. I offered him (I assume it was male) some cat food. No interest.

Meanwhile the real Whiskey came up and tried to insert himself into the proceedings. Bad idea. The feral cat went nuts, hissing, yowling, spitting, lurching, then cowering. I chased Whiskey off. Then I opened all the doors to the house. I removed the cat door and left a big inviting gap to the sanctuary afforded by a place that wasn’t my house.

Then I tried to herd the wildcat out with a broom. Imagine sticking a broom into a buzz saw. And the cat might have come in through the cat door initially but the concept of doors seemed to be beyond his comprehension.

I was able to herd him right up to an open exit. He went right past it and climbed the wall instead. I’m not making this up. The cat climbed straight up the plaster wall and right to the ceiling. He did that three different times. He literally climbed the walls. Finally, he figured out the doorway and scurried away. At last.

My adrenaline was maxxed out. I am very grateful to still have all of my fingers and both eyes. I went upstairs to check on the family. The dog knows his cats. He had prudently remained out of the fray. I checked out all four cats. Momo, the youngest (and the baddest) of the cats was bleeding. He had tried to repel the intruder. The fresh notches in his ears shall serve as testimony to his courage, his masculinity, and his utter foolhardiness.

I could not go back to sleep. I read my Icelandic murder mystery. All four cats were hiding out in the bedroom. Is he gone yet?