By Michael Tsai
Advertiser Staff Writer

I'd been in pissing matches before, but none quite like this.

For one thing, this one was distinctly one-sided — and I was on the wrong side. For another, the guy I was clashing with weighs maybe 10 pounds soaking wet and eats cockroaches.

(Forewarned, reader, this here's a cat story.)

Like any good bully, the Persian — I call him Big P, for various reasons — appeared on scene without apology or explanation, and proceeded to help himself to the most valuable feline resources my dusty garage had to offer — that being, of course, a container of Deli-Cat and a cool spot beneath my truck.

We tried to be accommodating at first. My upstairs neighbor kept the food bowl full, so Big P and the adopted outside cat, Jenka, could both get their fill. Each morning, I sat patiently in my truck, engine revving, while he dragged his paws getting out of the way.

But then Jenka started showing up with scratches on her head and scabby nibbles on her ear. I'd wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of hissing and yowling and crashing, and in the morning I'd have to coax a wide-eyed Jenka from the tree in the next lawn.

My own cats weren't thrilled, either. House-spoiled and neutered, they probably looked like a couple of manicured royals to Mr. Angry Young Cat. I'd let them out after dinner for an hour or two of moonbathing, and minutes later they'd fly in through the hole in the screen door, puffy-tailed and high-stepping.

So I took it upon myself to start asserting my genetically imprinted duty — that being to protect the womenfolk from the fanged intruder.

At first, a couple of snarling feints in Big P's direction was enough to send him scurrying. Eventually, though, he figured out that I was all hiss and no claw. He'd run out one end of the garage and reappear, licking his paws, in the other.

I tried every nonviolent means at my disposal: I stamped my feet, lobbed zoris in his direction, chased him up and down the driveway. It only upped the male-pride ante. At night I could hear him skulking around in the dead leaves outside my window, challenging me. Bring it, biped!

Then the spraying started. First Big P marked the area near the feeding bowls, then the spot under the stairs where my aloe plants live.

It was when he pee-bombed the bed of my truck that I seriously considered turning the little fleabag into a steamy box of manapua.

But first I consulted my cats' vet, who explained that Big P was Big P-ing as a way to assert control of his domain, i.e., the property for which I happen to be paying rent.

"He's depositing pheromones," the vet said. "It's sort of a testosterone thing."

I mulled the options. I could go ahead and mark my own territory (not something my landlord would probably appreciate) or I could get a trap and send him packing.

I decided on the trap, but then I wasn't sure what I'd do with Big P when I caught him. I could drop him off at the humane society, but the chances of an antisocial adult male cat with spraying problems getting adopted didn't seem too great. I could relocate him to a nearby cat colony, but then he'd just be whooping butt on a different set of cats.

While I contemplated the possibilities, my approval rating in the house dipped precipitously. Big P was still occupying the garage, and all I could do was stare out the peephole at the empty cage.

Eventually, as is often the case, the womenfolk took over. One humid evening, 10-pound Bella and 20-pound Bear ambushed Big P in a corner of the garage. Fur flew, rakes fell and — long story short — order was restored.

I'll never hear the end of it.