Everyone left the house yesterday, and the Interloper was locked in the bedroom, which apparently he likes, lolling on the bed all day like a sultan. I, on the otherhand, slept on the basement sofa, like the queen I am. The Interloper was leery about coming down after everyone was home, and I gave him a pass by staying downstairs in the home office, which was cool. Treats were dispensed, along with what my mistress called "meds," which is some device that she sticks into my hide twice a day. It doesn't hurt, and I am calm because petting, schmoozing and treats are forthcoming. A cat would be crazy to object.
This morning, OTOH, I emerged from said home office to find the Interloper sitting in the kitchen, big as you please. He jumped on a chair. Rats! He has enough sense to always take the high ground. We both spat, and I growled until my mistress calmed me with a back massage. Then I slunk around. Yowsa! We both got treats, and since I was forbidden my drama queen act, I retreated to the coolness of the home office. The Interloper is still on a chair, and quite comfy in my house. Grrrr. And again grrrr.
He uses my litter box and had the audacity to "mark" it, after I had marked it, but someone scrubbed it off. Being a cat is a hard slog through life and endless difficulties. My mistress says she would like to "come back" as a cat in her household, whatever that means. People are very mysterious, and not catlike at all.
Off for another nap. This patrolling of the house and asserting my rights as First Cat is very wearisome.