Land grab!

I’m being invaded. The neighbours spend entire days on my property, and on more than one occasion they’ve managed to get inside the house. Just last night, I found one of them in my bedroom, acting as if he owned the place.

Perhaps it’s cat karma. For months I’ve been without feline company, and now that I’m temporarily reunited with my cat, I’ve discovered that there are three others who have designs on moving in. The cats that live with the power lesbian couple next door have decided that they quite like us, and would like to expand their territory to include our property.

The most determined squatter is Pino, a large, fat chocolate point Burmese. Unusually, he’s an unneutered tom — presumably he is occasionally used for breeding — and he has the biggest balls I have seen on any cat. I first saw him lounging on the wall beneath the shade of the pomegranate tree. He was pleased to see me, purring and rolling coquettishly. Unwisely, I petted him and tickled his tummy, and that was all he needed. He decided, then and there, that he would like to spend more time with me, specifically in my house.

My husband is having none of it. Every time Pino attempts to get inside, he’s there with a spray bottle of water, ready to persuade him to leave. Not that this deters this cat, who is utterly unafraid of anything, including our ageing Dalmatian. At night, Pino will sit on the wall outside and stare at us for hours. It’s quite unnerving, particularly when the two other Burmese from next door — Pablo, the gorgeous neutered lilac who’s a bit of a moffie, and Whoopi, the shy little chocolate girl* — join him in their silent vigil. All a bit too Steven King.

Naturally, my cat is not happy about this. Every evening, Pino and she face off through the glass doors, humming like opera stars warming up for a performance of the Ring Cycle. Pino arches his back and turns his head sideways, flattening his ears, in the characteristic posture of fighting felines. His pupils dilate, nostrils flare. It’s an unequal match — he must be three times the weight of my own tiny, anorexic Persian — but possession is nine tenths of the law and both of them know that the house is hers. For now.

It’s a losing battle though. Just last night, I found him in my bedroom. My cat had taken refuge under an antique desk and he was doing his best to hiss and growl and hum her into submission. Out came the spray bottle and, after a whole lot of manoevring with windows, curtains and, eventually, the door, we managed to show him the way out. My husband wanted to make sure he got the message, so he climbed onto the garage roof to chase the cat the way he came.

Fifteen minutes later Pino was back in his usual spot.

It’s probably quite lucky for Pino that I like him (many other neighbours might not be so tolerant). As cats go, he’s lovely: super friendly, even-tempered, charmingly arrogant. When I called him as he sauntered past my pool the other afternoon, he was so thrilled by the attention that he immediately dropped and rolled in pleasure — and promptly fell into the water. He hauled himself out and shook each sodden limb delicately, then stopped to lick himself. Most cats would have fled in horror, but he took this as a minor diversion in his overall campaign of getting inside my house.

In many ways, I enjoy having him around. If only I could make him understand that he can’t move in.

* All three cats wear designer Rogz collars. That’s how I know their names.