Cold war

This is my yard. I run the place. I know every leaf, every blade of grass by scent. It’s where I do my morning rounds, afternoon naps and evening digging. I keep the fly population down, make sure I water a different area every couple of hours; I switch around the decomposing branches – my own personal recipe for compost. I keep the birds at bay so the fruit may ripen. Can’t you tell? It’s my yard!
You think you can waltz in and make it your own? You’re carefully luring the birds back in. You’ve taken to sculpting the bark of my beloved trees. You’ve claimed MY napping spot, right in the middle of the deck where the sun strokes me for hours and the branches sway, ever so gently rocking me to sleep. You think because you stay out all night on the toasty hot tub, you can just waltz in here and you own the place?
This is my yard. I will take it back from you. Even if it means leaving smelly booby traps that I will step in myself, switching to hourly rounds to cover your marks; napping long after the sun is gone and I am cold, and I am now scared of the not so gently swaying branches. This is my yard
And no, I will not say uncle, so you might as well pack up your mice, your birds and your kit -…What?
You want to stay?! You like your new bed. You appreciate how I pre dig the dirt for you. It’s a safe neighborhood for the kids, you’re right. I agree, those magnolia petals do echo the red in your fur, but – no, no, it’s nothing personal…it’s just that, well,
you want to stay…
And this is my yard.
And you think you can just waltz in here.
I’ve tried the peaceful approach: we had a summit about my feelings – you scoffed at me. I moved on to economic sanctions, eating the food those crazy humans leave out for you… you, you just invited yourself to my bowl! You’ve taken this “peaceful occupation” thing just one step too far – you leave me no choice: this is my yard…but,
I’m not sure how I feel about pouncing on you just yet. I was raised a pacifist. You’re obviously a hedonist. Surely you don’t want to revert to being cats and dogs!? I’m really not sure how I feel about pouncing…maybe we haven’t quite exhausted all diplomatic solutions.
I hope you don’t mind if I try bonding over bird watching from a distance; or if I intrude on your napping to take care of my oh so pressing business. Maybe if I join you on the bench, we can have a go at peaceful coexistence and drop the whole not so graduated response so I can get out of the cold. I hope you don’t mind,
because at this point, I’m not sure I can bring myself to pounce on you.

See, tiny baby steps. Look, I’m crouching down so I don’t look so intimidating. Baby steps –
I really wish you would take your cue and leave already!
Easy there; don’t get so angry. I’ll back off, but only because I just noticed a branch that’s in dire need of being relocated. I’ll back off, for now.
But this is my yard and this time I’m coming right at you. Because this is my yard, I will ignore my morals and take up arms. See, I’m not afraid of that hissing; no. I’m not afraid of that bushy tail. This is my yard.
Oh, please don’t. Please don’t raise your claws at me. Please, I told you I’m a pacifist; the sight of weapons makes me queasy. Please – I-I ok. You win. UNCLE.
I’ll say it. This is my yard…and you want to stay. And – sigh – you can just waltz in here and make it your home.