The C.O. beheld all the bats. “Too much rain for you all, too,” as she walked over to the drip, constant and strong now.
Sneaky looked up where the flashlight beam revealed a tear. “The wind did it. Tore a little piece of the tin roof right off.”
The human said nothing, positioned the bucket, and shivered a bit. The temperature had dropped.
“Will she kill us later?” another bat asked the cats. “Now that she’s seen us?”
“No,” Sneaky assured them. “She likes you all. You, Barn Swallows, Tree Swallows, and Purple Martins eat so many insects. You’re safe.”
“How unusual.” The second bat stopped swinging. “Most humans fear us.”
“She knows better,” Pewter called up.
“Interesting,” the first bat remarked. “People think we’ll tangle in their hair or give them rabies.”
“Makes me so mad,” the second bat complained. “We don’t have any more rabies than possums or raccoons, but we get blamed for everything.”
“Humans are afraid of the dark. You all fly in ziggy ways. You’re night creatures. It’s the way they’re made,” Sneaky sagely noted. “Listen. I want to change the subject. I am going to run for president, and I’m hoping you will help me.”
Not one bat said a word. They just hung there.
Pewter nudged Sneaky. “Maybe they don’t know what president is.”
“We know,” the third bat responded. “What a terrible job.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Sneaky, “but it will take a nonhuman to solve the really big problems: food, water, depleting the soil. That kind of stuff. The humans have lost their way. They talk about the environment, but they don’t really live in it, you know what I mean?” Sneaky was getting revved up again.
“I believe that,” said Bat Number Three. “Do you see how bright their cities are at night? We don’t even fly into Crozet, there’s so much light. We’ve heard there are enormous cities, millions of people, and those places are lit up all night.”
“It’s true,” said Pewter. “The energy consumed is wasteful. It’s one thing if the electricity comes from Niagara Falls, but most electricity does not.” Pewter didn’t like electricity one bit.
“Why do they do this? Live in light like that? Doesn’t that disturb their sleep?” The first bat just couldn’t understand this.
“Like I said, they’re afraid of the dark,” Sneaky repeated.
“They’re afraid of one another.” Pewter accurately identified the problem. “Who could blame them?”
“Ah,” all the bats said in unison and swung a bit as another mighty clap of thunder rattled the windows, winds buffeting the attic.
“Do this for me,” said Sneaky. “I will represent you as best I can. I don’t know how much money you save humans by eating insects, but I’m sure this insect eradication is immensely valuable. I don’t think they’ve ever calculated it.” Sneaky looked up at them, all of their beady eyes raptly attentive. “Night creatures and day creatures live different lives on different schedules. Will you discuss my campaign with raccoons, all the owls, possum, Whip-poor-wills? Talk to all the night animals? I need everyone’s support.”
“We will,” the first bat promised.
“Kitty cats, come on.” The C.O. was backing down the ladder. She couldn’t care less that their conversation wasn’t yet ended, but they dutifully followed.
The two cats walked to the opening. Pewter looked down as the human reached the floor and put down the flashlight. “I am not backing down a ladder.”
Seeing two cats looking down at her, the C.O. got the drift. She climbed back up, lifted Pewter onto her shoulder, climbed down. Sneaky had turned around to back down the ladder just as the house’s power shut off with a crack.
“Damn, damn, double damn,” the human cursed.
The tiger cat reached the ground. The human picked up the flashlight, climbed back up. Then, putting the flashlight in the pocket of her frayed robe, she slid the attic cover closed with difficulty.
“Good night, bats,” she called, as she lowered the wooden cover.
“ ’Night,” they called back.
Woodpeckers for More Bugs, Less Chemicals
The sun just cleared the horizon as Sneaky Pie, Tucker, Tally, and the C.O. loaded up the ATV with a chain saw, a chain, and heavy limb clippers.
As the four-wheel machine, built for farm chores and hunting, puttered to life, the C.O. slipped on heavy gloves, shifted out of neutral, into first, let out the clutch, and slowly rolled down the road between the barns as little rivulets ran below. Sneaky observed while riding in the front basket.
The dogs raced behind. They didn’t have far to run, because at the bottom of the hill, between two paddocks, a pine tree had fallen across the gouged-out driveway. Beyond that, the animals could see that the culvert under the little earthen bridge was jammed full of debris, water subsiding so it no longer rolled over the road.
“Bet the big bridge has branches and logs sticking all the way to the other end of that culvert,” Tucker surmised.
“That’s why she brought the chain.” Sneaky Pie moved to the backseat as the human pulled out the chain saw.
“This little thing can’t pull a tree trunk,” Tally noted, sniffing the ATV.
“Can pull out branches.” Tucker peered into the muddy waters racing under the small culvert, getting backed up on the upside bank. “That will get more water through the culvert, and some debris might get pushed out. We’ll see what it is when we get down there. Who knows what’s in the road?”
“We’ve got a mile and a half of dirt road.” Sneaky was good at calculating distances. “Lot of wind. Lot of water. The sun should help, but a little wind would, too. Not that it should blow as bad as last night, but anything to help dry up this mess.”
The C.O. started up the chain saw, pulling the cord. She began cutting through the tree trunk at an angle and up. One couldn’t falter in concentration for a second, which was one reason to cut up, not down. She had explained all of this to Sneaky, who usually enjoyed her human creature’s lectures on various topics, though now and again, when Mother was properly riled up, Sneaky actually wished she’d keep her opinions to herself. Sometimes the chain saw, heavier once the task is completed, fools the person using it and drops farther down than he realized, cutting through a thigh, usually. If one slices upward and at an angle, a nasty injury is often avoided. Being far out in the country, state roads possibly blocked, a chain-saw accident in these conditions would probably mean the human would bleed to death before help could arrive, plus the ambulance crew would have to clear the farm road to get in. Country humans knew these things. People moving to rural areas for the beauty often did not. With amusement, Sneaky had observed the C.O. trying to help newcomers, but so many of them, successful and important in the cities from which they’d fled, disregarded her friendly advice. Mother was what was known as a redneck. The result of ignoring her proffered counsel was overturned tractors, burned-out clutches in trucks, and new tires at too frequent intervals.
These days she kept her mouth shut, welcomed people, stayed friendly but offered not one word, of course. The animals, on the other hand, never kept their traps shut, lording their superior knowledge over the pampered pooches from the city.
The sound of the chain saw changed as it bit into the living tree trunk, the smell of its wood so different from that of a dead tree. It was a pleasant scent, but the chain saw’s grating roar was irksome, so the three animals decided to walk over to the Rockfish River and its formerly quiet pool. After last night’s storm, the river was raging.
Tucker had heard tell of the rockfish. “Think he’s down there in all that swirl?”
“I don’t know,” said Tally. “Bet he’s sheltered under a rock overhang or tree roots where lots of bank has washed away.” Tally thought of how a fish could hide from roiling waters.
“That rockfish is scrappy. He’ll survive,” called the Downy Woodpecker, not so hig
h up in a walnut tree near the bank.
“Guess he will,” Tucker replied. “We all learn what we need to know.”
“Most of us do,” the Downy Woodpecker agreed, “though the ones who don’t learn never live to tell the tale. Where’s that fat gray cat?”
Sneaky laughed. “Pewter recognized her duty in time to avoid it.”
“Maybe that’s why she’s fat.” The sunlight caught the bright red part of the Downy Woodpecker’s head.
They all laughed.
“Seen any of the cowbirds lately?” Sneaky asked.
“Out and about,” replied the colorful winged creature. “They like to sit on the backs of Great Bess and Addie. They gossip around the clock, those birds.”
“Have you thought any more about supporting my bid for president?” Sneaky asked.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” replied the bird, a bit formally. “You’ve got my vote, but I don’t think you’ll get block support from us birds. It’s too controversial. Supporting a feline must be an individual choice for every bird. There’s too much history of cats killing songbirds. And of course the cowbirds hate your guts. The raptors will support you, but you all think more alike than different. They do what you do but from the air. The strategies are the same.” Clearly, the Downy Woodpecker had given all this a lot of thought.
Sneaky was grateful. “Thank you for telling me this. I appreciate your support.”
Tally called up to the bird. “Don’t you believe Sneaky should have a Jack Russell for her running mate?”
The woodpecker’s answer was forcefully delivered: “No.”
“Tally, give it up,” Tucker advised.
The lovely bird let out its distinctive call before saying “While I admire your motives and applaud your efforts, I still don’t think you can accomplish very much.”
“Might I know why you’d say such a thing?” Sneaky inquired. She thought it good policy to listen to her critics. Dialogue often yielded unexpected benefits.
“Well,” the woodpecker started, “even if you win, you have to work with what humans call vested interests. They are powerful, motivated by money or, in some cases, laziness. They will fight you tooth and nail. How can you buy them off?”
“I can’t,” the cat honestly replied. “I can only hope that enough sheer animal power allied with the humans will overwhelm them, and they have to work for the common good.”
“Never happen,” the bird squawked pessimistically. “Huge special interests are out only for themselves.”
“I agree,” said Tally, still upset not to be considered vice-presidential material. The Jack Russell actually did think about some things, contrary to popular opinion.
“You do what you have to do,” the midsize bird said, encouraging the cat, “but let me give you one little example from the world of woodpeckers. When we show up in large numbers in any location, it means the trees are infested. There are always bugs in trees, but when we woodpeckers gather among a farmer’s cultivated trees, that means the farmer will lose his crop. So what do they do? They spray. I see it all the time. This nasty poison hurts us, and it does them not a bit of good. By the time they identify the problem of bugs, the trees are already well on their way to dying.”
Sneaky wanted to clarify the woodpecker’s position. “You’re saying no chemicals?”
“Yes. Let the trees die. They will anyway. Cut them down. Use them for sawdust. Even if us woodpeckers get most all the bugs from the trees, the damage has been done. So core out the roots or pull up the stumps, let the land rest for a couple of years. After that, the humans can either turn it back into a pasture or try again with a different species of tree. All too often I see them replanting without enough thought. All they’re doing is creating more food for those same bugs years down the line.”
“Wouldn’t the solution be to kill the larvae?” Tucker couldn’t imagine eating bugs, but then the woodpecker couldn’t imagine rolling in decayed flesh.
“That’s not as easy as you would think,” said the bird. “The larvae survives when the tree is alive. Then it hatches and eats the tree. When the tree is dead, the bugs are done with it. Not every single kind of bug works that way, but most do. The thing I’m telling you, Madame Candidate, is that there are no short-term solutions to certain problems. Unless our forests are completely denuded, I personally will always have something to eat. The whole issue does raise the rather interesting question: What’s a good bug and what’s a bad bug?”
“A ladybug is a good bug.” Tally liked them. They were cute.
“Until there are far too many.” Tucker was catching on to the Downy’s drift. “No human wants to see too many ladybugs crawling across her screened windows.”
“Right,” agreed the bird. “We can all agree that Japanese beetles are bad. Boll weevils are bad, but any bug can break bad, if you know what I mean. Well, it’s the same with some animals. If you have an overpopulation, things go to hell in a hurry.”
“I understand.” Tucker did.
“So if we see swarms of you, problems,” Tally said.
“Listen for our calls,” said the bird. “During spring, you’ll hear all the different woodpeckers calling to one another. Then it quiets down, and mostly what you hear are territory claims, some fussing at a nest occasionally. The trees are fine. They live and die like we do. Some trees live for centuries—pines, thirty years. I mean, the loblollies—those kinds, the ones really susceptible to bugs—are short-lived. Hardwoods usually last longer than pines, and they will get some insects, not so many damaging ones. I usually eat ants on hardwoods; some butterflies and moths place their chrysalids on branches. I’ll eat those, too, but really, hardwoods are pretty safe. Humans should avoid all their sprays and potions. You can try and outsmart nature, but you won’t succeed.”
“Mom says once chestnuts were everywhere, then they got sick and died,” Sneaky recalled. “All of them.”
“Before my time.” The bird opened one wing while leaving the other at his side. It felt good to stretch.
“Turn of the last century,” the tiger cat informed him. “But you’re right, I’m sure. Bugs seem to prefer certain species.”
“Cultivated tastes.” The bird laughed at his pun.
The other animals did, too, then turned at the sound of the human’s ATV starting up. Always making a racket, the humans could be as noisy as any animal.
“She made short work of that.” The Downy Woodpecker admired hard labor. “The culvert, too.”
Tucker smiled. “She’s covered in mud.”
“I don’t think our human will ever make the cover of Vogue!” Tally smiled, too.
“Might make the cover of The Progressive Farmer.” Sneaky thought that would be just wonderful, especially if she was featured in the photo in the C.O.’s arms.
That would win the farm vote!
A Warrior’s Death
The next day dawned clear. At 6:00 A.M., the mercury already nudged 54°F. The day looked promising. The roadwork and cleaning out the small culverts had been accomplished by the C.O. herself.
The animals scooted out of the house as the human headed for the barn, low mist obscuring the pastures, the honking of geese rising through the mists as the noisy birds chatted, waddled this way and that, and ate.
Each night before retiring, the human checked the water buckets in the barns, the water troughs outside. As the nights were warm, most of the horses could stay outside, though. She always brought in the two blind horses, the pony, and one-eyed Jones. Upon hearing the house cats come in, the barn cats raced across the hayloft.
“What are you all doing up there?” Sneaky called.
“Morning exercise,” the black-and-white cat, Dezi, announced. “Come on up and join us.”
“Later.” Sneaky walked beside Tucker as the two animals checked the feed room.
A cat could never be too sure about mice. Those sharp rodent front teeth could chew through the thickest wood. For this reason, all the food bins h
ad been lined in zinc. Special feeds were poured into metal garbage cans. Still, the ever-crafty mice might make progress if a tiny hole inadvertently appeared in a garbage can. This was usually caused by a sharp object just nicking the side as it fell from human hands. Then those mice would worry that little spot because the luscious odor of the commercial feed filled the air. Mostly, though, the mice relied on the folded feed bags, tied up with twine, then carried to the dump once a week.
Chewing the back end of those bags off was easy. The reward was sweet tidbits.
Tucker frowned. “They’ve been here. I smell them.”
Tally trotted into the feed room. “Bet we have the fattest mice in Virginia.” Then she looked at Pewter, who had joined them. “Speaking of which, the fattest cat, too.”
Pewter unleashed a straight right to the jaw. “Creep.”
“Ouch!”
“The only reason you’re thin is you haven’t been spayed, an event the rest of us pray for daily. You’ll blow up like a broody hen when you’re fixed,” Pewter predicted.
“You say.” The Jack Russell took a precautionary step backward.
Leaving the feed room, Sneaky called up to the barn cats. “Hey, you guys aren’t catching any mice. They’ve chewed the bottoms off the feed bags.”
Dezi replied, “Well, Pewter gets into them, too, but the bags are empty. We’d kill the mice if they messed with full ones, but the C.O. always dumps them in the bins or the cans. We aren’t lazy.”
This declaration was followed by a loud grunt, then the click of a bill as the barn owl up in the cupola let out a laugh.
The barn cats looked upward, wisely refraining from an argument. These barn cats were a wild lot, to be sure, but they knew better than to sass the powerful owl.
Sneaky followed Jones, Blue Sky, and Shamus as the C.O. led them out of their special paddock. The dogs tagged along, too. Pewter reposed on a fleece saddlepad in the tack room. She felt she’d had enough exercise for the day, and it wasn’t yet seven o’clock!
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