In an act of feline diplomacy, Licorice, my eight year-old black cat, who has lived most of the past five months
in the rafters in the garage, or on top of the six-foot tall bookcases in the bedroom, has subdued Maeve, our adopted Aussie. This morning while Maeve cowered on the rug, Licorice confidently groomed herself on the edge of the bed where they could both observe each other out of the corners of their eyes. Licorice sometimes stands on the foot of the bed intermittently spitting and yowling, her tail and back raised, and each of her short, black hairs standing fully raised also, looking intensely forbidding. Maeve looks at her, and immediately her perky ears lie flat and she drops to the floor, looking cautiously at Licorice with her face averted. I get the message that sometime, somewhere, Maeve and Licorice have come closer than bed and floor, and that Maeve knows what’s behind that yowl and raised back. I feel so relieved and content, now that they’ve obviously begun to make their “arrangements” for some sort of cohabitation. Here’s a picture of the two of them in one of their diplomatic discussions.