I’ve seen that white, stripped-tailed cat before. Creeping around, growling at Old Yellow. This has been Old Yellow’s territory for a long time, but the ursurper sees an opportunity. Yes, I know. It’s the natural order of things for the old to be vanquished by the young, but I don’t like it. Why doesn’t Whitey find some unoccupied turf?
But Whitey is aggressive, and persistent. Old yellow by contrast seems uncertain, hesitant to put up a defense. Well, all right. He’s slowing down. What’s more, he’s probably ill. The other day when I put down his bowl I caught a whiff of him. Very foul odor, like he’d been rolling around in a dead carcass. He eats, but slowly and with less enthusiasm than usual.
I hope he gets over it soon. Meanwhile, just a minute ago I pitched at Whitey a hard, unripened pear from the tree in the courtyard. The little prick stood his ground. Gave me a contemptuous look.