Daria Doering

Max, the old warrior. The first time I saw the orange cat, I was watching our neighbors across the street. The dad came home with his two little boys. He said, “There’s that cat on the front porch, so let’s go around to the back door.” I thought – how strange, that he would walk all the way to the back of his house, to avoid a stray cat!

I soon found out why. The orange cat, as we called him, would come to our house, and pick fights with our beloved long-haired white cat, Whitey. Whitey used to lie on our front walkway, posing like a sphinx. The orange cat would attack and try to displace him. Sophie, our long-haired black “scaredy cat,” just ran away from him.

I don’t know how many times I heard blood-curdling screeches, screams and hisses in the middle of the night, as the orange cat fought with one of our cats or another neighborhood cat. Whitey would come home with a torn ear or other wounds.

Whenever the orange cat tried to enter our house or yard, Mike or I would try to chase him off with a broom or rake or whatever we had on hand. But instead of leaving, the orange cat would turn around and attack the broom! Time after time! Mike got so angry that he took to blowing an air horn at the orange cat, and the explosive sound worked better than anything else to make him leave.

I was mindblown by this cat and his behavior. I had never seen such an aggressive feline! I became determined to find out who this cat was, and whether he was semi-feral or had a home.

So I took a photo of the orange cat, and put it on NextDoor, asking if anyone knew who he was. Someone told me that he lived on the next cul-de-sac over from ours, and his name was Max. So now I could call him by name! it felt like he knew he was busted, now that I knew who he was. I could say assertively, “Max, go home,” and he seemed a trifle easier to deal with.

One day his owner knocked on our front door. The NextDoor respondent had said that Max was loved and well cared for. The owner wanted to say hello to us, and said something about no one owning cats. He seemed very nice.

Then our beloved angel Whitey died. He had been my constant companion, especially when I had toe and ankle surgery, and was stuck on the couch recovering, barely able to move, for months. He rarely left my side. So his demise was a terrible loss, and I cried for weeks.

Max kept coming around, and now he actually could take Whitey’s place. He laid on the front walkway where Whitey used to lie, and even perched on the little platform that Mike had built onto our back fence for Whitey to sit on and supervise passers-by.

However we kept having run-in’s with Max. We were all attacked by him more than once. I remember once when I heard dramatic cat sounds coming from the backyard. I went to see if Sophie needed rescuing. This was during the period when we were having our floors redone, so we had a lot of furniture under tarps in the backyard. I saw Max, carrying on in a threatening manner, but not Sophie. I shook a broom at Max and yelled at him to go home, several times, but he ignored me, as usual. So I turned to look under the tarp, to see if Sophie was there. Max then jumped on my legs from behind, scratching me and drawing blood, even through my pants!

After that, I thought – I don’t know if I can even consider being friendly to this cat, ever again! But I always eventually relented. I guess we were grateful that Max was always coming around, and wanted to be with us, in his strange way.

I also discovered a better way to get rid of him, when he was being mean to Sophie. If I walked ahead of him and called for him to follow me, and then opened the gate, he actually would generally follow me and leave. This worked way better than trying to shoo him from behind, which he always resisted.

So little by little, we became friendly with Max. You know how it is with cats … we don’t pick them, they pick us. He kept coming to visit, several times a day. He wanted to come into our house, eat some dry cat food, and cruise around. He always announces himself when he enters, with interesting and expressive sounds, that resemble talking, though I can’t begin to describe them.

He and Sophie divided up the house. Sophie spends most of her time sleeping on top of our baby grand piano. Max spends most of his time sleeping on the bed in the guest room. He is not allowed to approach or stalk Sophie, and we make him leave if he goes toward the piano. Mike has also been brushing him, and he will jump right onto Mike’s lap, or occasionally on mine, and lay there and purr, like a normal cat!

Of course we still have to be careful … the potential to attack us is always there. He was on my lap the other day, and I moved my arm too quickly, and he bit it, lightly. You can’t make quick moves around him.

So every morning now, I get up around six, and Max is at the back door. I unlock the cat door, and he comes in, ambles around the house a couple of times, and goes to sleep on the bed in the guest room.

It is a dramatic turnaround that we are friends, and we are happy to see him. Mike always calls him “old man,” as it is clear that he is getting on in years.

This morning I was thinking that our relationship with Max actually mirrors Mike’s and my relationship. These days I feel so happy, being retired and with Mike, in our “bubble of bliss.” I was musing on why it feels so blissful. Maybe because Mike and I have always kind of hated each other … we’ve been like frenemies. We fought viciously for many, many years. I always say that we beat each other into submission (figuratively). There was great love and passion there too, so it all felt worth it. But these days, all the animosity seems to have melted away, and we are left with just the love. It feels like a miracle. Same thing with Max.

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