Cats aren't supposed to like cheese but ours do. The finest "Farmhouse Mature Cheddar, crafted in Somerset", no less.
They come separately because they hate one another. If they meet there is protracted eyeballing as at the climax of a spaghetti western followed by hissing and spitting and yowling and I have to break it up with a water pistol. They're quick to learn some things. For instance they know the sound the water pistol makes when I'm pumping the trigger- and run for cover before ever they get squirted. What a pity then that they haven't also learned to knock off the ruckus that brings the water pistol into play.
We've had multiple cats before. There was a time when we had eight or nine in the house together (not this house, the one in Oldham) and they didn't always co-exist in perfect harmony but there was never this kind of bitter, undying antagonism.
Pickles is sitting beside me as I write. She's watching the door to the kitchen in case Marlowe comes through it. Eventually she goes upstairs. Marlowe comes in from the kitchen, pauses at the foot of the stairs and looks up in case Pickles is waiting in ambush. This is how they live their lives...