Two cats met on the bed, and only one could stay. A common skirmish in the constant cat wars of our house.

Last night Medea and Molasses simultaneously made moves to be That Cat That Gets Pet by me. Normally this results in Cat Staring, with Medea emitting all manner of growly noises, followed by Molasses chasing her under the bed, usually punctuated by Boris erupting from sleep to leap over my prone form and bark at the quarrelling cats. Boris's transition from sleeping to barking usually involves a large paw being planted on my crotch.

Last night, however, Molasses stared at Medea for a moment, then turned away and scampered off, making a small squeak of complaint. It's like being cornered by Darth Vader in a dark place with no help at hand, only to have him run away, whining about having pooped his cyber-shorts.

So either Medea has mastered her cat-fu, or else Molasses isn't quite the dominant young cat he pretends to be.