Mark Davis

What’s up with Powell cats? I’ve never seen so many cats that stand their ground when meeting my sometimes vicious (sounding) 3-year-old blue heeler.

The first cat Reggie met was an alley cat we called Major Tom. For years he ruled the neighborhood, forcing local bunnies, birds and bugs to watch their backs. At times we let Tom come in for a treat or to warm himself during the cold winter days.

Once in the house, most of the time he’d find a warm, out-of-the-way place to sleep for 12-14 hours. But other times he was lurking under the kitchen table, waiting for me to stumble through bare-footed.

He would look at me and then pounce; often leaving a mark from pointy teeth on the thin skin on the top of my foot. Someone told me it was a sign the cat liked me.

I would’ve rather had headless critters dropped at the front door than this Tom’s aggressive, foot munching nature. We had a cat named Blackie when I was but a feral youngster. He left a variety of decapitated victims for us to find. I think I appreciated the gifts more than my mom. Or the mail man for that matter.

Having grown up with cats, I felt a little ashamed of my super-cautious nature around Tom as I watched the neighbor kids picking him up like a floppity doll hanging in their thin arms without hesitation or fear of its dingy-yellow fangs.

They called their pet Verbal. Even though my animal-whisperer wife and I found out his actual name, we still called him Tom. It was a term of endearment, but maybe that’s why he bit me more often than not.

One day Reggie poked his head out the door while I was taking him for a sniff of the perimeter. There stood Major Tom, in all his ruffian glory, wanting to come in for a bite (so to speak). Reggie inched slowly toward the beast and with one swipe of its paw to Reggie’s muzzle, Tom at least helped initiate the hate my dog has for seemingly all cats.

Reggie’s current nemesis is a black and white cat owned by Joann and Jim Cross. They’ve hated each other since day one. That cat was in our backyard once when Reggie rushed it. The cat just stood there daring Reggie to make the first move. Reggie flinched and in a split second that cat was over the 6-foot privacy fence like a zap of heat lightning.

The other day we stopped in to see the Cross family while they and their giant, gorgeous malamute Gunner had a free moment. We exchanged pleasantries until Reggie noticed the cat staring down at him from a 4-foot perch. He barked like he does — in a kitty frenzy — destroying the peace of the fun moment.

But the cat just sat there mocking poor Reggie. My pooch was inconsolable the rest of the way home. Either that or his mind was on the Acme showroom floor looking to build a Wile E. Coyote contraption.

Not even a bunny in the alley brought his bat-like ears up in excitement. I realize his ego was hurt, but I’d rather he never get in a fight no matter what species it is. It could be a blind, toothless, loathsome sewer rat and I’d still rather everyone just minded their own business and dropped the whole territorial posturing silliness.

Why fight, Reggie? Instead, why not just learn to lick your enemies into submission. I’m a firm believer in the “love your neighbor” movement. It started more than a few thousand years ago (as the second great commandment), but seems to be losing steam quickly with each new generation. Yet, no matter how much I wished Reggie would learn to make friends in the neighborhood instead of fighting, he refuses to forget that first encounter with Tom and has it in for all cats, despite the fact that each and every cat he meets has a different way of thinking and opinions of dogs, if you will forgive my frequent irritating anthropomorphizing (if that’s even a word).

The unconditional love; that wiggly butt and his nub of a tale spinning like a top losing momentum as he meets me at the door no matter how long I’ve been out. Come home from work for lunch? Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. Coming back in from taking out the garbage? Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. Return from a 10 month absence? Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

I like cats. I mean we’re all just trying to make ends meet and to occasionally take a good picture for Facebook, right?

I look for life lessons in every experience. I don’t really understand why I can take Reggie-boy to the dog park and he can (mostly) get along with dogs of all sizes and colors, but he will probably hate cats the rest of his life if he doesn’t broaden his experiences. I mean, they’re all four-legged and covered in luxurious fur, after all. But I doubt he will — in the same way every time he hears the tub filling, he hides. It’s harder to be understanding in each new situation than to simply hate.

Does the human urge to be tribal affect pets as well? Even in Tribune designer Carla Wensky’s humongous fish tank next to her desk there are battles for territory. Heck, there are even occasional battles on who gets to feed the fish. It’s my turn, damnit!