A Clint Eastwood Moment

He is tawny - a lusciously cream colored coat with rich brown points on his face and tail and Paul Newman blue eyes - he's also enormous for a Siamese and he lays into the equally large orange tabby like a threshing machine.  They are wrapped up together on the front lawn - shrieking and wailing like the last two survivors of the end of the world - they snarl and tumble and roll around, not even noticing me as I come down the front steps.  I shout at them to break it up but it's all flailing claws and gnashing teeth and obscenities and neither pays me any attention.  Reluctantly I reach for the water hose, give the faucet an extended twist, and advance upon them with steely determination.  

Fair warning!  I shout but they are too intertwined to hear.  Dirt and fur are flying and I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.  I step even closer, press my thumb into the end of the hose and douse them both with an icy spray of water.  The tabby breaks free and makes a mad dash through the crepe myrtle, slashing through the latticework and diving under the house.  The Siamese gives a final, defiant yowl, turns on me with his back arched and hisses nastily.  I, however, am in the midst of a Clint Eastwood moment.  I wave the hose like a deadly weapon and meet his eyes without the first flinch.

Are you feelin' lucky, punk?  I ask and take a step toward him.  Apparently he's not - he gives a last growl and then turns tail - running through the scrubs and into the yard next door but still somehow maintaining his dignity.  Again, I'm struck by his size, which is considerably larger than our average neighborhood cat, and his gracefulness which is tiger-like.   I've never seen him before but I have a suspicion that he's only just begun.

There's a new sheriff in town, I tell the orange tabby who has taken a tentative step out from under the house and is watchfully sitting among the branches of the crepe myrtle, You'd better be watching your back.  He blinks but says nothing, casually lifting one paw to groom his whiskers and pointedly not looking to his left where some distance away the Siamese is sitting like a statue.

I love cats.  They're all about attitude and spirit and independence, things I admire greatly, but sometimes a cold shower is the only reasonable solution.