Cat Fight - Me? Ow.

I know. With a title like that you are expecting some serious foxy boxing or GLOW (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling for those WWF-neophytes). But no. I'm talking about my cats, mes chats, my puss-ows.

The Question: Is it possible to win a battle with two cats? Methinks not. I am outwitted, outplayed and outlasted, Survivor-style, in this sitch. Even Jeff Probst in all of his epaulets-and-cargos glory has given up on me, extinguished my torch and told me to pack up all my belongings (kitty litter, food bowls and Eukanuba) and go HOME.

How did I get to this place? Here's how it went down...

Recently, our two cats - Belly and Stinky (don't ask for the meanings behind the nomenclature) - laid siege to our abode with a double-barrel offensive (in both senses of the word) attack - the cornerstones of which were the deployment of both hairballs and diarrhea in simultaneous blitzkriegs and incursions in all manner of rooms of the residence. Agent Orange it was not...perhaps Agent Puce is more apropos. Either way, it was a rumble in the jungle and the sh**ty kitties were WINNING.

After all I've done for them! How could they go and turn tail on me like that?!

Deep breath. Let's take a moment to consider. After all, I've been through nearly 30 years of sporadic therapy, so I'm up for a little self-evaluation.

Perhaps it began with the arrival of our canine companions nine years ago. Surely, that didn't go over well, as the felines watched us feed, walk, cuddle with and...gasp...DRESS UP the dogs in a collection of canine couture including, but not limited to, customized George collars, faux Burberry coats and even (gag) rain slickers with hats. Les chiens were included in the Christmas cards while the forgotten felines were left on the sidelines, with nary a faux fur mouse or kitty grass container in sight.

Perhaps more legitimately, the arrival of our daughters eight and six years ago (respectively)may have signalled the proverbial harbinger of doom and tolling death knell of any extra attention to be lavished on the pusses-sans-boots - who were, from then on, largely ignored.

How could I not have seen this coming, you ask? There were SIGNS, you say!

True.

If I'm really honest about it, it started innocently enough. Just a few fluffs of feline fur strategically placed here and there among the designer cushions from Juxtaposition. An array of scratch marks on the newly purchased Butera club chairs. A little "spillage" from the litter box onto the travertine floors each day - despite my attempts to stock that most disgusting of all pieces of household equipment with the most expensive, odor-reducing kitty crystals available on the open market (not that there's a black market for kitty litter, but work with me because it helps the story).

So, yes, there were signs. Meow culpa.

Which brings us back to the battle on the homefront and the new "GI Bill" - aka, the $1000 vet bill that determined...shocker...the cats had GastroIntestinal issues(cause unknown).

"Enough!" I yelled. "You may have won the battle, you ungrateful felines, but you have not won the WAR!" I continued.

And - right then and there - I downgraded the household terror threat from orange to yellow with a bold maneuver, taking those cats from indoor to outdoor status, stat. No truces reached. No treaties signed. No ticker tape parades paraded.

I did get to throw out the damn litter box. But I know those cats are plotting something. It's entirely too quiet out there. Better go sharpen my claws...