Even before the first yowl, the other cats sensed trouble and sought cover. Oedipus and Electra had been fighting for several minutes already. The cats–one nearly twice the size his opponent–chased each other between the rooms. Paw strikes, at first playful, escalated into full on swipes and grapples. It was getting ugly fast.

After fourteen years, they knew each others hiding spots, and each others weak points. Retreat was not an option. Neither was surrender. One cat was going to lose big.

And then the cry.

When it ended, heaps of gray and white fur from Electra lay in random piles across the carpet. A swatch of exposed flesh was etched into the crook of her right ear, like some kind of prison yard slashing. Child’s play compared to the injuries Oedipus suffered.

The mighty Oedipus, and all his 21 pounds of muscle and glory, leaned against the wall, his right lid shut tight over the eye. His battle scar: a scratched cornea.

Later at the vet, a droplet of liquid made his eye appear green. The prognosis was excellent and Oedipus returned home shortly after the examination, and a stop at Sonic Burger for some Tots. He likes Tots.

Now Oedipus has a new opponent, more fearsome, and the consequence of the fight far more urgent than the last. Antibiotic drops, administered four times daily, and a once a day dash of atropine. It’s enough to make a grown cat cringe. And he does. He shudders. The atropine also makes him foam at the mouth for several minutes, like a mad animal. Or rather, like a talk show host.

But at least his eye stopped turning green, and it’s nearly half open. By Friday Oedipus will be good as new.