Obviously Pewter was not going to die young, despite her genetics. Pewter crested ten and fudged about her age. Why, Sneaky had no idea. She herself was a mature cat, fourteen by her count, beyond the wildness of youth, although she could still chase a butterfly.
There was a rustle overhead; then the light click of claws grasping a beam caused her to lift her head to see.
“Any luck?” she called to the barn owl, who hooted back.
“Good hunting tonight. Usually is at the edge of a front. Everybody’s out getting food before the rains, although the rains are far off.” The owl fluffed her feathers, then smoothed them down. “Heard you’re causing a lot of talk.”
“I guess.”
“It’s an interesting quest you’ve embarked upon, a difficult one. But I fear our time may have passed.”
“What do you mean?” Sneaky climbed up the ladder, walked across the hayloft, stopped by the beam over the center aisle, where the owl perched.
“I’m thinking of the gods and goddesses. When people worshipped them, they also worshipped us because each god and goddess had an animal sacred to them. We were sacred to Athena. Hounds and deer attended Artemis. Every god or goddess had an animal friend. But now all that is gone: We’ve lost our mythological importance.”
“Well, the bald eagle is the symbol of the United States.”
“And I am tired of hearing about it,” hooted the owl. “Those two eagles on the Rockfish River are conceited beyond belief. What do they do? Sit in trees and catch fish. There’s no reason they should be the symbol of this country.”
“Perhaps.” Sneaky, naturally, thought a cat much better suited to the role. She imagined her face on a dollar bill.
“Now, if the humans had more sensibly selected an owl as their national symbol, they would be blessed by wisdom. But no, they chose a fish killer.” The barn owl let out a hoot of derision.
“It is strange,” said Sneaky. “France has a rooster, England a bulldog, Russia a bear. So those people around the globe at least pay some attention to animals.”
“Oh, pussycat, they haven’t a clue. Although I do think the cock for France is just about perfect.” He chortled.
“Lions, leopards, tigers, wolves, boars—even pelicans were used on shields.” Sneaky liked the books on medieval life that her C.O. read incessantly.
“That was all a long time ago,” said the owl sorrowfully. “No, they have forgotten what they owe us, the courage and guidance we once gave them.”
“That’s why I am mounting my campaign: to restore good sense and dignity across all species.”
“I admire your grit. Don’t know much about your sense,” the owl said.
Sneaky took no offense. “We all know the Declaration of Independence. Even foxes know that.”
“Yes.”
“ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.’ ”
The owl, in his sonorous voice, recited, “ ‘That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed—That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government—’ ”
The two fell silent for a moment, then the tiger cat said, “The Declaration applies to us, too.”
“Oh, it’s about people, always people—and for that matter, it was only about white men.” The owl half closed his golden eyes for a moment.
“You’re right. As amazing as Mr. Jefferson was, he was a creature of his time. Just as we are creatures of our time.” Sneaky never failed to defend the long-dead redhead.
“True.”
“Were he with us today, he would see things a bit differently.”
“For one thing, Mr. Jefferson wouldn’t write the Declaration of Independence, he’d text it.” The owl laughed loudly.
“Oh, dear.” The cat grimaced. “Here’s what I think: He owned slaves, he owned animals, he liked cats—but I will set that aside for now. He sort of liked women, and he sort of didn’t. I mean, he loved his wife, lied about his mistress, both here and in Europe, but he thought women were lesser creatures. He didn’t believe they should vote or participate in public life.”
The owl blinked. “There are still people who own slaves in the world today and parts of the world where women are chattel.”
“It’s horrible, but the mistreatment of us is horrible, too.” The cat drew closer to the beam. “If Mr. Jefferson really were alive today, I’m quite sure he would consider women, African Americans, and animals differently.”
“I should hope to holler.” The owl used the old Southern expression.
“So we must continue his work for him. Take his noble ideas into the twenty-first century. This country is not ruled by the consent of the governed. Heretofore, we animals have had no voice.”
This oration so moved the owl that he turned his head nearly upside down, then back up again. “You’re right!”
“We need a voice!” said Sneaky. “I speak for those who haven’t been heard from.”
“Sneaky.” The owl called the cat by her Christian name. “I admire your passion. I think you are right, but I don’t know how you can expect to reach people. They all live in bubbles. For some, it’s a rich bubble of consumerism; for others, it’s a miserable bubble of poverty and pain.”
“I know. I can’t say I’ve entirely worked out my outreach strategy yet. Another problem is that I don’t have any money. The Republican candidates have already blown millions, and the president will squander millions upon millions to get reelected. The estimates on what the campaign eventually will cost are over one billion dollars.”
The owl blinked again. “Oh, my, shocking.”
“The president spends as much time raising money for his reelection as he does on the huge difficulties facing our country. Everyone accepts it, says that’s just the way the system works.” Sneaky thought the whole process wasteful—destructive, even.
“If I were the president I’d spend less time fund-raising and more time keeping an eye on those beautiful daughters.” The owl opened his eyes wide. “Those two are becoming women and they will upset applecarts. Men will lose their reason around them.”
“Shows they’re still animals.” Sneaky laughed and the owl hooted, too.
Cast Off Your Chains!
“Don’t you just love shiny things?” Pewter held up in her paw a golden chain with a medallion hanging on it.
“Not much,” the corgi confessed.
The gray cat swung the chain a bit, then dropped it on the worn wooden floor to hear the pleasing metallic clink.
The sound awakened Sneaky Pie, asleep on a kitchen chair.
Tally, under the chair, also woke up. The Jack Russell got up and stretched. Even stretched out, she wasn’t very long. “Let me see,” she said. “I want to see the shiny thing.”
Pewter swung the chain toward the Jack Russell, who grabbed it in her teeth.
“Tastes, um—” The dog dropped the chain. “Not edible.”
“You knew that.” Pewter picked up the glittering chain.
“Had to be sure.” The little dog sat down on the kitchen floor.
Sneaky, off the chair now, hooked a claw through the other end of the chain.
The two cats pulled, the chain’s medallion sliding first in one direction and then the other.
“Fun.” Pewter’s pupils expanded.
“Whoo.” Sneaky lifted up her end of the chain so the medallion slid down to Pewter, who then reversed the procedure.
The cats, enraptured by their game, paid no attention to the screened door opening and the light footfall.
“I wondered where that was.” The C.O. stepped into the kitchen, grabbed the chain.
“You weren’t wearing it.” Pewter tugged, not releasing her end.
“Pewter.” The C.O. put the cat’s paw between her forefinger and thumb with one hand while extricating the chain with the other.
As the chain swung in her right hand, Sneaky took a whack at it.
The C.O. laughed. “That’s what I get for leaving jewelry on the counter.”
She hooked the chain around her neck. The two cats longingly stared at the treasure.
“That necklace would look better on me than her,” Pewter said, diplomacy cast aside.
“The gold would show up nicely against your gray fur,” Sneaky agreed.
“I’ve seen dogs with heavy chain collars. I don’t want one.” Tally’s mind turned back to the kibble in her dish.
“You’d fall down with a heavy chain around your neck.” Pewter tormented the dog by going over and sitting next to Tally’s food bowl.
This way the cat could pat Tally’s head when the dog ate. Drove the dog crazy.
Snapping a dishtowel off the rack, the C.O. polished the medallion. “Maybe I should get little steel Saint Hubert’s medals and attach them to your collar. This is my Saint Hubert’s medal, you know. Mother gave it to me.”
The C.O.’s mother had died decades ago yet was missed every day.
“Doesn’t look bad on you, it just would look better on me. Steel? No. I should wear gold.” Pewter gabbled away.
“I’m not wearing a collar or a necklace,” Sneaky Pie said. “I will not be put in chains.”
“I don’t have a choice. Have to wear my collar and my rabies tag.” Tucker thought a medal might be pretty. “The tag always pulls off, so she has to keep paperwork. As if I’m going to bite anybody.”
“I am.” Pewter smiled broadly. “I think I’ll start with you.”
Menacingly, she circled Tucker, who ignored her.
Tally padded over to the ceramic bowl. Pewter charged over to the bowl.
Tally, a tidbit dropping from her jaws, warned, “You don’t like dog food. Leave me alone.”
“If I’m hungry enough I’ll eat your food, but mine is better. Has more fat in it.”
“I know,” Tally sarcastically replied, at which the cat cracked her right over the skull. “Ouch!”
“Peon,” Pewter snapped.
Tally lunged for her, but the gray cat easily evaded the dog by jumping straight up. She then came down behind Tally, biting the dog’s tail just enough to register.
“Stop it.” Tally twirled around as Pewter leapt onto the counter, looking down with a wide, satisfied grin.
“This is going to be one of those days.” The C.O. crossed her arms over her chest. “Bubba pushed a gate off the hinges. Had to tie it up until I can get someone to help me. And my mortgage is due. I hate sitting down to write checks.” She did, however, sit at the table for a moment.
“Sorry.” Sneaky Pie jumped on her lap. “At least your necklace isn’t ruined.”
She looked down at the stag’s head with the cross between its mighty antlers. “Mother bought this in Vienna, at a jewelry store by the Spanish riding school where the Lipizzaners are. I cherish this.”
“I still think medals for the dogs is a good idea.” The cat placed her paw on the C.O.’s hand, which held her medal up so she could see the beautiful work on the medallion.
Petting Sneaky’s glossy head with the other hand, the C.O. said, “I love Saint Hubert. Guess Pewter does, too.” She looked over at the cat, who struck a pose. “He’s the patron saint of hunting and hounds. No one knows exactly when he was born, but probably around 656 A.D. He died in 727. So he lived to be seventy-one, a good age in any century, but really marvelous back then.”
“Hounds? Really, is there a patron saint of cats?” Pewter looked down at Tally, winking at the dog, which only further infuriated her.
“Saint Francis,” Sneaky replied. “Everyone loves Saint Francis.”
“He doesn’t count,” said Pewts. “I mean, he loved everybody, you know. There are paintings of him with birds and all that. No, I want a saint who dedicated her or his life to cats.”
“You might have to wait for that,” Tucker drowsily called up to the cat.
“Well, what’s the big deal about Saint Hubert?” Pewter sniffed.
“No big deal,” said Sneaky. “Just that the C.O. loves the necklace and medal. But I think the story goes that Saint Hubert was a rich youth who passed up Good Friday’s service in church to hunt. There weren’t many churches then, as much of Belgium and Europe was still pagan. He heard church bells but paid no attention. A giant stag walked in front of him, the cross appearing in his antlers.”
“How do you know that?” Pewter became mildly interested.
“Because she’s told the story so many times.”
“Well, I don’t remember it.” Pewter crouched lower on the counter, threatening to jump onto Tally.
“ ’Course not,” Tally shot back. “You’re too busy thinking about yourself.”
With that, the cat arced off the countertop smack onto the little dog. Pewter growled ferociously, pulled some white fur out, then disengaged and ran for all she was worth out the animals’ door, out the screened door (which also had an animal door), and all the way to the barn.
Tally was in hot pursuit.
“Dear God.” The C.O. got up and hurried outside, making it to the barn in time to see the cat scramble up the ladder affixed to the wall while the dog barked below.
“All right. All right. Enough. Come on, Tally.”
The dog obeyed, angrily looking back to see the cat giggling at her.
“I’ll get you,” Tally growled.
“That’s what you say,” Pewter sassed.
Back in the kitchen, the dog drank some water while the human knocked back a Co-Cola. Then they both sat down for a minute. Sneaky had calmly watched the whole dog and cat drama unfold, as had Tucker. They sat together on the floor.
Tucker asked, “Do you really think Hubert saw a vision?”
“Maybe,” Sneaky answered. “People sometimes can see beyond the veil. I don’t know, but she loves to tell the story. Why not believe it?”
“You’re right,” Tucker agreed. “Maybe there are special days and times when we should all dedicate ourselves to doing the same thing. For them it’s a holiday or church. I think all dogs should celebrate Rin Tin Tin’s birthday, and Lassie’s as well.”
“I, for one, celebrate every day,” Sneaky said and purred.
Tally dripped water on the floor off her mustache. “Pewter’s funny, wanting a saint dedicated just to cats.”
“You let her get under your skin. Ignore her,” Sneaky counseled.
The C.O. got up, pulled out some treats for the cat and the dog, giving them out as she reminisced with them, “You all never met my mother. She was social, I mean really social, smart, and a wonderful dancer. We’d go places, and men would line up to dance with Mom. But we didn’t have much money, and she always wanted to go to Austria. She loved music, and she wanted to attend the opera at the big opera house there. She wanted to see the Spanish Riding School, too. She saved and saved. I chipped in, a few of her friends did, too, and for her seventieth birthday, off she went. Pretty fabulous, isn’t it?”
“It is. A dream come true.” Sneaky Pie had seen photographs of the C.O.’s mother, a stylish woman.
“How old is she?” Pewter looked at their human.
“How would I know?” Tucker said.
“You know a lot else.” Sneaky shifted her weight. “But it’s usually easy to tell how old they are. Especially if they’re from Nordic countries. Skin can’t take this Virginia sun.”
“Hers is okay.” Sneaky jumped back up on the table. “Well, she never talks about her age, because I think she doesn’t care.”
“Oh, please,” said Tucker. “They all care. They’re obsessed with it. Billions are spent annually by humans thinking they can make themselves look younger.”
“Billions?” Tally wondered.
“Of dollars.”
“Billions of dolla
rs to look pretty, and it’s not just women. Men, too. There’s plastic surgery, thousands of creams and potions. Stuff they have shot into their skin, even their lips. The mere thought of it makes me cringe. Needles.” Tucker closed his eyes tight.
“Eeww.” Tally did, too.
“Yeah, but our age doesn’t show so quickly.” Sneaky struggled to understand the human viewpoint. “Everyone looks good in fur.”
“Needles in lips.” Tally’s voice rose to a high screech, making the C.O. look at her.
Tucker perked up her ears. “It does sound pretty awful.”
“She’s not doing any of it.” Sneaky peered closely at the C.O.’s face.
“So how old do you think she is?” Tucker wondered, too.
“Hard to tell. No fat. Strong body. Moves fine. But there are deep creases by her mouth, wrinkles around her eyes, and her hair has gray in it. I don’t know. I mean, she has to be kind of old, but she’s not creaky yet.”
“Baffles me. The whole aging thing,” Tucker said. “I guess when I can’t herd the horses or chickens anymore, I’ll know I’m old.”
“They move around more than we do,” said Sneaky. “They meet more of their own species than we do. She just told us about her mother flying to Vienna when she was seventy. So maybe they want to look really good for all the new people and young people are pretty.”
“Nah, it’s about money.” Tucker threw out a dash of cynicism. “The young buy more junk than older people. That’s why so many ads are pitched to them. They don’t know enough about real quality yet, plus they need to establish households. It’s all about spending. I guess that makes older people want to look young, too. You all see the stuff on TV, you want it.”
“I guess.” Sneaky peered more closely at her C.O., who reached out and stroked the cat under her chin. “But I think the surest way to look old is to try to look young.”
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