Mr. Whiskers had his hackles up. The interloper – Mittens – had struck the first blow, a vicious bat across the face. Mr. Whiskers hissed a warning at Mittens, but it went unheeded. Mittens crept forward, ears flattening and jowls tightening to reveal teeth. Mr. Whiskers pounced, and the battle was on.
Mr. Whiskers barreled into the side of Mittens, and the two went tumbling in a ball of furiously flying fur. Mittens began to hiss and spit as Mr. Whiskers scratched him across the hindquarters, but his success was short-lived as Mittens got in a firm bite on Mr. Whiskers’ paw. The two leapt apart, panting heavily. Mr. Whiskers favored his left forepaw, while Mittens was obviously putting less weight on his rear right leg. They eyed each other like two prize fighters, retreating to the corner after a round has concluded.
There was no bell to signal the start of round two. Mittens was the aggressor this time, lunging forward. Just as he was about to collide, and Mr. Whiskers had tensed for the impact, Mittens pulled back and struck with a paw instead, striking Mr. Whiskers right between his namesake. Mr. Whiskers growled in surprise and pain, and leapt forward again. He was going to end this, one way or another.
The two rolled back and forth across the tile, neither gaining advantage over the other. For each swipe Mr. Whiskers landed, Mittens came right back with another. Fur was everywhere – in the air, in their mouths, in their claws. The sounds were horrendous, as though two weary warriors were giving their all in a battle to the death. In some respects this wasn’t too far off.