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when I saw the guardcat sitting in my way. He was quite large, with fluffy black fur and a white streak starting between his eyes and running down his nose. His eyes were fixed firmly on me and they held a warning.
    I might not like cats much, but I knew their warning looks. My ex, Cameron, had five cats that were definitely on the list of animals with whom I didn’t get along—it was their rude attitude I took issue with. They would ignore my entry, even when I lived with them, and I know every species has some sort of greeting ritual. Not that I wanted them to act dog-like and slobber and jump on me—no, that would be beyond endurance. Maybe a polite nod of the head or an occasional rubbing on my leg on their way past … when I wore something that fur wouldn’t attach to. But nothing. Cameron, they thought, was the sun and the moon—purring when he stroked their chins, sitting on his lap watching TV, rubbing against his legs when he came home.
    There were only two instances when they would deign to acknowledge my existence. The first was if they were hungry and Cameron wasn’t home. Then it was a shameless about-face, trying to convince me that I was their favorite human in the world—did they think I was stupid? The second was when it was cold, Cameron had left the bed, and they needed my body heat. Then, they’d lie around me on top of the quilt—two either side and one on top. I’d be cat-locked. I rarely like that much body contact with another human , let alone five cats I actively disliked. I’d have to lie there, hoping they’d move. Their collective bodyweight on top of the quilt was enough to pull it taut over my body and pin me to the spot. Any attempts on my behalf to wriggle out would be met with a swift claw to the offending body part—and those claws could somehow break skin through the quilt. I eventually devised strategies to address the situation—gentle prodding with my pillow or throwing my bedside book to the floor to startle them into leaving—but still, I was annoyed that I’d have to resort to such tactics in my own bed.
    In return for their disdain, I’d refused to learn their names and would only refer to them by physical characteristics. As in, “Hey, orange cat, get out of my briefcase,” or, “Cameron, the bow-legged cat’s coughing up on your shoes.”
    I surveyed Winston’s face. How much damage could he do? There wasn’t a quilt in sight so I was confident I’d be safe.
    I took a step toward him and he stood, tail raised, his eyes never leaving mine. Hmm, maybe it’d be better to go around him. I walked several paces to the right to bypass, but he also moved to the right and again took up his attack stance.
    I stopped.
    He sat.
    I moved a leg forward, cleverly feigning a step.
    His ears twitched.
    I stopped.
    I folded my arms and tried to stare him out.
    He held my gaze and twitched his tail.
    I’d read somewhere that the key in a stand-off was not to blink, and to make the other person … er, cat … look away first. So I stared back, ready to wait until he faltered.
    His gaze was steady, the only movement in his body was the flicking of his tail—and I knew enough to know that was a warning. But I wasn’t scared. I was in this for the long haul, I wasn’t going to be outbluffed by a cat, I wouldn’t let myself be distracted for a second —
    “Hey, babe, haven’t seen you around before.”
    I turned to see a cocky-looking teenage boy with his thumbs in the belt loops of his low-slung jeans. It was a look I normally liked—but he didn’t even come close to pulling it off. I was about to tell him so when I realized my mistake.
    I quickly looked back to Winston, but he’d turned away and had a back leg thrown around his neck, rhythmically licking his fur.
    “Damn.” I’d been outwitted by a cat.
    Winston momentarily looked up at me, eyes half closed, gloating, then returned to licking himself.
    Annoyed at losing the battle of wills, I turned back to the