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  And there were so many gangs to house all of the disenfranchised kids who needed a family to feel a part of. One of those gangs could easily land on that particular corner later on in the week and tag over this kid’s gang tag with their own. Then this kid would come back to “his” corner and tag again—they needed to tell competing gangs (and the world at large) that this wall, this block, this neighborhood belonged to them . . . and don’t you forget it.

  I wanted to answer his question, I really did . . . but I couldn’t. I was, instead, readying myself for violence. Every muscle in my body tightened. I tried to return a somewhat tough glare, but I was definitely a fish out of water in that respect. I tried to walk around him, and he slid in front of me. I went the other direction, and he shifted back. I’m not sure what I did next, but my body posture must have been such a clear sign of surrender that this kid actually laughed at me. Full-throated, head back—laughed. That cackle served as the final nail in the coffin of my pride; having snuffed me out like a cigarette under his shoe, his pride sated and his territory unquestionably safe, he finally let me pass.

  In a sense, he needed to bolster his sense of ownership through intimidation and humiliation. He had to make sure I was completely beaten before he could wear his own crown. This instinct was the nature of gangs; what this one kid did to me, the gangs did to entire neighborhoods. The collective mojo of these communities suffered under the weight of the muggings, the endless tagging, the warfare that had blocks divvied up by a violent few in the name of ownership.

  Although the Napoleon complex is not a recognized condition, the term has been used throughout the ages to describe an overowner, like my gang member. Because deep down they have absolutely no faith in their ownership, the goal becomes lost in the pursuit. They need to see another person’s loss to reassure themselves of the space they occupy. We see Napoleons on a global scale—fundamentalists who destroy ancient artifacts, leaders who conduct a scorched-Earth policy when they sense their power slipping. . . . In the world of the Napoleon, if he can’t own it, nobody can.

  And yes, all of this applies to the ultimate practitioner of anti-Mojo, the Napoleon Cat. When you encounter a Napoleon Cat in his territory, you will be greeted with his ears forward, his eyes zeroed in on you just a little, and perhaps a crouching, even aggressive, posture. His initial thought is “Who are you, and what are you here to steal?” True to the complex that is his namesake, he is paranoid about the prospects of takeover and overcompensates accordingly. And in this cat’s home, he will ambush others when they least expect it, even when those people (and animals) have already abdicated their position day after day.

  If a cat could fold his arms, the Napoleon would find a way. Instead of greeting you at the door with a tray of mojitos, the Napoleon will stand across the doorway or right in the center of the foot traffic, just like the gang member from my youth. But in the Napoleon Cat’s world, graffiti is sprayed not with paint but with urine. We see that lack of mojo on display when he paints the perimeter of your home—under windows and on doors—as if to say, “If I want to protect this castle, I should damn well build a moat!”

  It’s interesting that, in the years of one-on-one work I’ve done since defining the archetypes, I’ve noticed that the Napoleon Cat gets very little love, very little empathy. If we want our Napoleon to inch his way toward the center, toward his best Mojito self, empathy is what it takes. We can’t save all of our parental protection skills for our final archetype.

  The Wallflower (a.k.a. the Victim)

  Although the Wallflower is a pretty self-explanatory archetype, knowing you have one is usually confirmed by someone visiting your home; they will ask, “You have another cat? I thought you had only one!” The Wallflower is a closet cat, an under-the-bed cat, someone whose primary objective is to remain unnoticed, safe from scrutiny.

  She is the one who politely hopes you won’t notice her as she sneaks by. While the overowner is lying across the doorway, and the Mojito Cat is walking around shouting, “Hey! How you doin’?” the Wallflower is hanging back against the wall (hence her moniker), never once daring to walk across the middle of the floor. The Wallflower is saying, “I don’t own this. I assume you must be the owner . . . which is totally fine, but if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’m just going to the litterbox over there. I’m not looking at you, just leaving. Don’t mind me. Good-bye.” And she leaves with a blink-and-you-miss-her, tail-tucked run, or the Wallflower special, the army-crawl exit stage left.

  Ironically, it is the Wallflower’s display of anti-Mojo—slinking around the periphery, avoiding confrontation at all costs, deferring, and often being overly fearful and shy—that leads to her role as the victim in multicat homes, a role often referred to as “the pariah.” In such homes, you find her “caving” in the closet or under the bed, or sometimes cornering herself on a shelf or on top of the fridge. In extreme circumstances, our Wallflowers feel unable to come down from those “safe zones,” to the point where they even poop and pee in those zones.

  Like the Napoleon Cat at the other end of the confidence pendulum, the Wallflower cat is also anti-Mojo because hiding is reactive, not active. It doesn’t matter whether the threat is real or imagined—it still requires her full attention and prompt action.

  We want all cats to be their version of Mojito Cats—in other words, not expecting them to conform to what we think confidence should look like, but acknowledging their tendencies and easing their anxieties to make them the best Mojito Cat they can be. What tends to be a hindrance in getting both Napoleon and Wallflower toward Mojitoland is our ingrained feelings about them. The Napoleon tends to get our scorn, and the Wallflower, our pity. The Napoleon gets locked away in a room where she can’t beat anyone up, while the Wallflower gets special treatment in her “safe zones,” which could mean a dish on top of the fridge or under the bed, or a cushy bed inside the closet. As the old saying goes, “The road to ruin is paved with good intentions.” The only road to Mojitoland goes right through the challenge line.

  AT HOME WITH THE RAW CAT

  In the wild, a cat’s territory isn’t defined by walls, doors, or windows. Cats create their own maps and establish their own boundaries. Most cats have a core area that they identify as home. The size of their territory beyond that core may depend on whether they are male or female, how much prey is in the area where they live, what type of predators are around, the availability of mates, and how much direct competition there is.

  In the absence of doors and walls, cats mark the space they occupy with territorial markers. But if we were to zoom in on what unites all felines, from lions to our cats, it’s not just that they are territorial. It’s how they express that territoriality. All cats use markers, or signposts—by urine marking, scratching, rubbing their cheeks and other areas that have scent glands, and perhaps even by pooping—to delineate their turf.

  The Raw Cat uses scratch marks to define frequently traveled pathways, and will cheek rub on fences or fallen branches. Urine is used to mark the loose boundaries of a cat’s range on prominent objects like tree stumps. As mentioned in the last chapter, marking behaviors say “I live here,” not necessarily “keep out.” Urine marks transmit information about how recently the cat was here and what his or her reproductive status is; spraying ramps up during mating season.

  But the whole point of all these signposts is to allow cats to coexist without fighting. It’s like leaving the message “Hey, I’d like to reserve this space from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m.—cool?” It folds into the feline style of avoiding conflict, securing resources (food) alone, and time-sharing as need be. Of course, we all know that sometimes cats don’t agree—and that’s when fights break out. But signposts help cats identify where and when they exist, and that’s why they are so important to your cat—especially because we define their boundaries by keeping them indoors.

  THE CONFIDENT WHERE

  We’ve already established t
hat cats see territory in a three-dimensional way that other species (including humans) don’t. For instance, when we bipeds walk into a room, we take in its assets based on what’s sitting on the floor—we scope out the most comfortable chair or couch, the best seat in proximity to a window or the TV, even the best place to drop our wallet and keys. Let’s face it, we are very much terrestrial.

  Cats, on the other hand, take in every square inch from floor to ceiling, assessing possible rest spots, advantageous perches where they can survey the comings and goings of other beings who share their turf, and spots where they can camouflage themselves to prey/play or just disappear from the world.

  Mojo’s swagger is partially based, as I’ve mentioned before, on that feeling of being “home.” A baseball player’s mojo is derived not only from his daily three Rs (which in his case might be batting practice, physical therapy, how he puts his uniform on, etc.), but also from where those rituals take place—at the ballpark. If we took Tony Manero out of his Brooklyn neighborhood and deposited him on Staten Island, would he still possess his mojo? Most likely not.

  Similarly, a cat’s Mojo is not strictly about her ability to hunt, to complete each step of the Raw Cat Rhythm; cats also create confidence based on where in the territory they tend to be most successful. Your cat will find various territorial sweet spots somewhere on the vertical axis, and claim them. Each cat has a preferred vantage point in the vertical world, or what I call the Confident Where. Our job is to discover and encourage their relationship to these places, which allows them to step into their greatness, full of mojo, and prepare themselves to take on the world. All we have to do is observe. When your cat walks into a room, where is he looking? Many cats will walk in, head high, looking straight up, as if to say, “That! I want that!” Identifying, with mojo, a specific area along the vertical axis is what I call dwelling. Discovering what kind of a dweller your cat is will go a long way toward creating a long-lasting Mojo-fied territory and an equally Mojo-fied cat!

  CONSIDER THE FOLLOWING THREE CATEGORIES:

  Types of Dwellers

  Bush Dwellers are the cats waiting under the coffee table or behind a plant. They are often in the “Raw Cat” mind-set, waiting to hunt or to pounce. Bush Dwellers like to have all four feet on the ground.

  Tree Dwellers can be found anywhere off the ground. These cats get their confidence from being up high and seeing what’s going on. They’re not necessarily up in the rafters, but they might be on a chair or on top of the couch. They demonstrate their confidence off the floor.

  Beach Dwellers like all four feet touching terra firma, but rather than waiting under a coffee table, they let it all hang out. Beach Dwellers like being out in the open. This is the cat you trip over every day. They’re sending a message to you and everyone else in the home: “You have to walk around me.”

  But before you label your cat a Beach, Tree, or Bush Dweller, you need to know the difference between dwelling and hiding. You can tell if cats are dwelling by their body language. Their ears are forward, and they are surveying the landscape, but they are not vigilant.

  Hiding is notably different; it’s about being small and invisible. It’s what we call the Unconfident Where. Crouching down is not about comfort, and seeking safety is not about confidence. If your cat hides all the time, or spends most of his time under the bed, he is not a confident Bush Dweller. Similarly, your cat is not likely a Tree Dweller just because he lives on top of the refrigerator. Which brings us to . . .

  Fridging is when a cat lives on the fridge—up high, but still fearful. Although this behavior pulls on every one of our heart strings, this is a living situation that you simply shouldn’t allow to persist. If your cat shows you that he doesn’t just prefer to be up there but needs to, and you’re feeding him there, you’re not addressing the situation at hand: he is trying to get away from something, usually other animals or people. He only feels safe there, because there is something on the floor that is like broken glass to him.

  In addition, caves are places where cats go to hide, and when they’re hiding out in a cave out of fear, we call it “caving.” We tend to encourage caving by giving cats everything they need in their cave—we feed them under the bed or bring their litterbox to them, in a misguided attempt to help them feel safe. But caving doesn’t make cats feel safe; it just makes them small.

  Cats often hide in what we call the Unders. This could be the furthest corner under the bed, in the box spring of a mattress, deep in the back of a closet, or even in a hole in a wall (I’ve seen it all). The Unders represent the ultimate in caves. Eventually, all of the Unders need to be removed or made inaccessible to your cat by blocking them off. But we’re not going to just rip away your cat’s sense of safety.

  Cat Daddy Dictionary: Caves and Cocoons

  A cave is a place where a cat goes to hide, a cocoon is a safe place where a cat goes to transform.

  We know that cats need safe spaces to spend time in to prevent stress. But we need an element of control over those safe spaces. That’s where cocoons come in. A cocoon is a hideaway that you provide, with the objective to challenge and transform, not simply accommodate. It might be a tent-style cat bed, or a tunnel, or even a cat carrier that’s been decked out with a soft blanket. A cocoon offers your cat safety while allowing her to gain confidence and be part of the household activity, because cocoons are eventually placed in socially significant areas. Cocoons allow your cat to feel safe without disappearing. Like their namesake, cocoons are built for metamorphosis; they allow your cat to grow and transform into their fully Mojo-fied self.

  In chapter 8, we address all things territory and talk about turning Hiders into Dwellers.

  ALPHA AND DOMINANCE: FACT OR FICTION IN CATLAND?

  I’m not a big believer in alpha cats—the idea that one cat establishes and enforces dominance over a colony or household of other cats. The terms “alpha” and “dominance” get thrown around a lot—and in ways that can be harmful—when it comes to dogs and cats.

  There’s actually little evidence that cat groups form a strict hierarchy, where one cat is always on top. Instead, I believe that cats who live together settle into various “occupations” rather than certain rankings on some hierarchal totem pole. There’s time-sharing that happens in different favorite spots, and there is that one cat who sort of goes around and keeps things in check like a benevolent dictator . . . a sort of a territorial corrections officer. In my house, it’s Pishi who plays this role. He’ll walk up, for example, sniff my other cat Caroline’s butt, and she’ll get the message.

  “Lights out. Move along.”

  I think a lot of people would describe Pishi as an alpha. But there’s a difference between roles that define any society and this sledgehammer label that is “alpha.” Granted, the only thing that prevents any society from becoming a complete anarchy is role-playing. But alpha denotes dominance, and dominance is not a personality trait. It might describe a pattern of interactions between two animals, but there’s really no good evidence for “wolfpack” behavior in dogs, much less cats. Research has also shown that a lot of the “dominant” or aggressive behaviors we think we see are probably more about age and familiarity between the cats. Bottom line: there’s no such thing as a truly alpha cat.

  A big problem with calling a cat “alpha” or “dominant” is that it doesn’t actually help us understand his behavior. It doesn’t fix anything. It just causes you to view your cat through an adversarial lens, where you interpret everything as aggression. And then, as a result, your response is to try to dominate him.

  THE CAT ARCHETYPES CONNECTION

  As discussed earlier, a Mojito Cat is sort of a social magnet. The world tends to revolve a bit around the Mojito, because she is confident—and not so tied up in self-preservation. Wallflowers and Napoleons, on the other hand, are so obsessed with taking care of their own stuff (and being anxious about it) all day long that they forg
et about the greater good of the household or colony. This anxiety can serve as a proverbial target on their back in the eyes of other cats.

  But the Mojito is above that, so she can deal with the general structure of her world much easier. Does that make the Mojito “dominant”? No—because if you watch your cats carefully, you will see that it’s flexibility and time-sharing that defines the majority of cat relationships. (More on this in section 3.)

  Section

  THREE

  The Cat Mojo Toolbox

  6

  Welcome to the Toolbox

  CAT WITH A capital “C”; Ubercat; Everycat; the Raw Cat. The cat throughout history, the (sometimes hard) transition as they learned to live among humans, the (even harder) acclimation to living indoors, and all that we’ve come to learn about them—that journey ends here. And this is where we begin. We’ve talked about the human influence on cats throughout history, but what about the here and now? I’m not talking about the epic story of humans and cats. I’m talking about the very individual story, which plays out day after day, year after year. We humans aren’t just guardians of territory or providers of resources. We are participants in a relationship and have the opportunity to help guide our companions into their brightest light.