I'm way overdue for a Pussycat Report, telling you the latest on the feral cats that live in my backyard. The last one was back in those halcyon pre-Pandemic days, all the way back on 2/1/2020. At that point, I was down to one permanent tenant and one occasional and very loud demanding visitor. The visitor cat was one which both a neighbor and I, quite independent of one another, both named Murphy. The permanent tenant, who has been living 'n' dining here since some time in 2007, is Lydia, named for the famed tattooed lady once romanced by the eminent attorney J. Cheever Loophole.
Murphy has not been seen or heard from in some time but Lydia is still in more-or-less eternal residence. She occasionally goes unseen for a couple of days and is not overly-famished when she does show up so I assume she's found somewhere else nearby to grab a meal once in a while.
The above photo was taken of her one time when she did seem hungry. If you listen carefully, you can hear her say, "Put down the damned camera and fill the bowl, lackey!" (I'm kidding, of course. She hardly ever calls me "lackey.")
She's pretty much lived alone out there since Murphy skidoodled but every now and then, a Mystery Cat has turned up once or twice and Lydia has tolerated or perhaps welcomed its presence. Until this morning.
A cat with fur the color of Donald Trump's hair was out there this morning, lying in a sunny spot by the pool. I think it had also helped itself to Lydia's supper dish. Whatever the reason, Lydia didn't want it around and made it feel most unwelcome by staring daggers and slowly advancing on it. The New Cat was younger and larger but it opted to not mess with Lydia. It backed off, then turned and fled over the back fence. If it knows what's good for it, it won't be back.
Lydia took a little victory lap, strutting around the backyard which she has clearly defined as her turf. Then she settled down in roughly the same sunny spot in the sun and resumed the never-ending task of licking herself. Don't mess with her.