Illiterate Cats

Our home is a full home. We have two dogs, two cats, and a soon-to-be two year-old. Among the clutter and confusion that can occur in any home sporting two working parents and a precocious child, we have our lovely chart of house rules. It used to hang in the center on the first floor, but had to be moved to a space by the fridge to make room for a much needed whiteboard. Either way, its commandments are clear. Be kind. Take turns. Use words, not hands. And you essentially have the idea. There is one major problem with this litany of Thou Shalt's -

Cats don't read.

At least my cats don't. 

Tory, our female, has decided that, after a month of him living with us, she now hates Trey (mostly referred to now as Poor Trey). Trey was adopted when Haephestus (Fezzy), my cat of seven years died due to complications from saddle thrombosis. Like Fezzy, Trey is very laid back, but unlike his predecessor lacks the desire to be the dominant cat. Tory, like some power-crazed despot from unkinder eras has launched herself into a campaign of unlady-like attacks and fur-flecked set-to's.

Poor Trey. And poor darling son, who has been wakened the past two nights by their tussles outside of his room, adjacent to the cats' room. (Yes, the cats have their own room in our house - it's too small for a bedroom, and it gives them a break from my son.) In fact, I hear Tory tuning up right now. Time to dispense some nightly justice in spray bottle form. If that doesn't work, someone may wake up to find themselves the proud owner of a pernicious little tortie.