Jed Wolf

Pretty BoysOur two Ragdoll cats—brothers Pablo and Prince (nicknamed “Wince” for his tendency to moan about peculiar things)—have a way of charming even the most stoic of visitors. When contractors come to work on our house, these gorgeous felines demand attention, making it nearly impossible for anyone to focus. They flirt, rub, chirp, and coo so persistently that I often have to put them outside so work can actually get done. Otherwise, the toughest workers end up on the floor, conquered by feline charm.

Fortunately, our backyard is a cat paradise. I’ve created a sanctuary with Koi ponds connected by a waterfalling stream, raised vegetable beds, and exotic landscape plantings. A modest green mesh fence from Home Depot, buried within privet and arborvitae borders, keeps them contained. Unlike the nightly raccoons, possums, and neighborhood cats, our boys have never shown interest in escaping. They’re content to lounge in the sun like magazine models—it’s in their nature. They come when called like dogs, racing each other to see who can first break open our hearts all over again.

Ragdolls were invented in the 1960s by a cat lady in Los Angeles whose white Angora had an encounter with a Himalayan, resulting in a litter of extraordinarily relaxed kittens. True to their name, they go limp like rag dolls when held. Our boys are essentially heavy, highly massageable, blue-eyed fluff monsters—Pablo weighs in at 22 pounds, Wince at 19. Though they’re one of the most popular house cat breeds in America, the books warn against letting them outdoors. They’re prone to getting stolen or beaten up because they’re attracted to strangers and have zero interest in defending themselves.

For five years, our kitties watched other cats from the safety of the yard without direct confrontation. Occasionally, I’d chase away a mean-looking scarfaced tom, whom I hadn’t seen since last winter. We kept a watchful eye on their outdoor routine while dreading potential consequences.

Yesterday, everything changed. Returning from the gym (hey, I’m sixty—staying in shape matters), I let Wince outside first, as Pablo’s extra weight always slows him down. I came back with tea just as Pablo was meowing to go out when suddenly, a blood-curdling screech erupted from the garden. My tea went flying as I rushed to the window to see Wince and Scarface tumbling and screaming, fur flying underneath a weeping Cotoneaster.

Certain poor Wince would be killed or expensively maimed before my eyes, I flew over the artful stone steps, narrowly missing the lower pond, screaming like a banshee. As I skidded on pea gravel, praying Wince would survive until I reached him, Pablo shot past me like a yellow bullet. He dove directly onto Scarface, giving his brother a chance to escape.

I gouged my shin on one of the serpentine hand-wrought stone walls and went down hard on a Ninebark. Looking up from ground level, I saw Pablo had the upper hand. Suddenly Scarface broke free, only to bounce off a Mugo pine and right back into Pablo’s clutches. The fight was horrendous. Just as I thought Scarface might lose an eye, he took off toward the Golden Cypress corner with Pablo one foot behind. Scarface sailed over the Home Depot fence, while Pablo stopped dead in his 22-pound tracks like the good boy he is.

Other than a few drops of blood on Pablo’s yellow mane, the brothers were fine. I hope Scarface and I both learned our lesson about underestimating pretty boys.