Each horse was turned around to face the human. She patted them on the neck, then their halters were slipped off. Then the three horses whirled to run to the end of the paddock. Despite the visual limitations of Blue Sky and Shamus, their senses were so keen they knew the dimensions of the paddock. They never ran into the fence or into each other. Eager to be free this glorious morning, when the human opened the gate, Jones, Blue Sky, and Shamus happily loped into the early sunshine.
The cats and dogs ambled through that pasture into the next. When all the gates were opened to the other upper pastures, the horses could enjoy thirty acres with varied terrain, watered by a strong running creek. With his one good eye showing the way, Jones still surely loved to gallop. Disappearing over the hill, he then came charging back up.
Before she slipped under the fence, Sneaky turned just in time to see Jones stumble. She waited for a moment. He recovered, then went down again.
“Hurry!” the tiger cat yelled to her friends.
They rushed to the aged horse. He lay on his side, his breathing rapid and shallow.
Tucker licked the old fellow’s nose. “Jones, Jones, are you all right?”
“Ah.” He blew out from his nostrils. “My legs don’t want to work.”
Tally hit the turbo, turning tail and running for the human. She was puttering in the tractor shed.
Sneaky sat by Jones’s head, his large brown eyes soft. “Do you hurt?”
“No. I feel weak.” A deep breath followed this. “Pussycat, my dear friend, my time has come. Sit with me awhile. You, too, Tucker.”
“We won’t leave,” Tucker reassured the horse, as she saw the human running toward them, Tally leading the way.
The C.O. knelt beside Jones, pulling back his lips to look at his gums. She placed her fingers on the big vein running along his neck.
“Jones, I’ll call the vet.” The C.O. met Sneaky’s eyes: Both of them knew he was dying. The human didn’t want the beloved horse to suffer.
“No need,” Jones whispered. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
She ran to the tack room of the barn as the three animals sat with Jones. Hearing the C.O.’s call, Pewter jumped off the saddlepad and hurried to her friends.
“Jones, don’t die,” Pewter wailed, as Sneaky shot her a sharp “shut up” look.
“We all have to go sometime,” the old Thoroughbred replied with great sense.
The horses in the other pasture trotted up to the fence-line.
Jones lifted his head, “Ozzie, you’ll be the oldest now. Keep them in line.”
Blue Sky walked up, Shamus by his side, as the pony depended on the Saddlebred more than the other way around. Each of Jones’s paddock mates nuzzled him.
Shamus let out a high nicker. “Jones, what will we do without you?”
“Live.” Jones laid his head back down, for it felt so heavy. “You’ll go on.”
“I’ll take care of things,” the blind Saddlebred promised.
“I know.” Jones breathed faster now. “You all look after the human. I’ve been with her over half her life. She needs all the horse sense you can give her. She has a good heart. Promise me.”
They all promised, and Tally started to sob in anguish.
Pretty soon the barn cats came down to say goodbye, as did the barn swallows. Jones had lived so long that generations of barn swallows knew him. All the animals knew him. He’d always been there, like the mountains.
The human came back, a towel over her shoulders. She sat on the grass beside her oldest animal friend.
“It will be okay, buddy.” She rubbed the towel over his face and along his neck, hoping it would feel good.
“You saved me. You’ve saved a lot of us,” Jones managed to say. “I’ve had a good life. Thank you for it.” He raised his head slightly, looked at her, then laid it down.
The gathering of friends waited. Fortunately, the vet was on call in the area, reaching them within a half hour.
Fading fast, Jones heard the truck tires. “Sneaky Pie, don’t ever stop fighting for what’s right. You can still save the animals.”
The cat rubbed her head on his. “I won’t,” she said sadly.
The vet calmly walked down the hill, sensitive not to frighten the other horses. She placed her hand on the C.O.’s shoulder.
“Thanks for getting here so fast, Anne.”
The vet knelt down beside Jones, checked him out. “His systems are shutting down.”
“I don’t want him to suffer.”
Anne walked back up to her truck, filling a syringe as the C.O. slipped halters back over Blue Sky and Shamus. The human walked the two blind horses back to their stalls.
When she rejoined Anne, the C.O. stroked Jones’s head.
Tally really wailed now.
“Tally, I can’t see you anymore, but I sure can hear you,” Jones rasped, and Sneaky couldn’t help it, she laughed.
Then Jones was gone.
The animals stayed at his side as the humans walked up to the barn.
Two hours later, Burly Connick drove up the farm road with his ditch witch and began to dig a deep hole.
Sneaky and the human watched as he prepared to push the body in. The C.O. climbed up on the machine so he could hear her, hanging on to the bars. “Burly, lay him out so he faces the mountains. He loved the mountains.”
And it was done.
As she paid Burly, the man said, “You two been together a long time.”
“Yes, we were, over thirty years.”
“My little Trixie,” he named his dachshund, now departed, “lived to fifteen, and when she died I cried like a baby. A baby.” He reached for the chew in his pocket with one hand as he took the check with the other. “I think they know more than we do.”
“Yes” was all the C.O. managed to say.
And, for once, Pewter stayed quiet.
Literary Aspirations Revealed
A week had passed since Jones died. All the animals continued to mourn him; he’d been in his pasture since each one had been born. Everyone felt low. The human said nothing but carried a handkerchief to dab her eyes.
This last Saturday in May, everyone but Pewter worked on farm repairs. You’d cross two chores off your list and three new ones would hop on the bottom.
Sneaky used the sad time to canvass more animals. She’d talked to the Canada geese, the chickens (impossible twits), the muskrats, any and all whom she encountered. Every now and then the cowbirds continued their bombing campaign, but they didn’t show up in full force, for which everyone was grateful.
Alone in the house, Pewter had the computer all to herself. Furious that over the years she had been portrayed as a fat, self-involved diva, she was determined to write a smash novel of her own. The computer was really easy to use. The cat couldn’t understand why they used an apple for a logo. Made no sense. She thought it should be a jet or a cheetah running flat out. A cat never could tell what logos or totems would motivate people.
The human had helpfully supplied the electronic mouse with little ears, eyes, whiskers, and a rubber tail, which amused Pewter as she moved around the device. The gray cat cackled as she worked:
Fangs glowing neon white, eyes burning bright, the vampire cats attacked the terrified Great Dane. The large dog ran for his life, but the vampire cats, knowing no fatigue, would eventually wear him down.
The eastern sky lightened. They’d been running for hours. A church bell rang out, heralding the dawn.
The vampire cats froze.
“Back to Hell Hall,” their leader commanded.
The twenty cats turned to the north. They’d just reach the crumbling once-grand estate before the sun cleared the horizon.…
So intent was Pewter on her opus that she didn’t hear Sneaky softly come into the room.
Hoping Pewter was doing research on animal profits, the tiger cat leapt onto the desk.
However, when she edged over to the computer, Pewter quickly saved her work, then hastily cleared
the screen.
“Pewts, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“U-m-m.” Pewter fudged. “I’m looking up things.”
“Wildlife stuff?”
Fortunately, Pewter actually had looked up information concerning how much money fishing and hunting licenses brought into states. However, once alone and certain her buddies wouldn’t come back, she then returned to her novel. Sneaky Pie wasn’t the only literary cat. Pewter dreamed of literary fame, too. She could also imagine her vampire cat saga as a feature film. But who would star?
“Uh-huh,” she stammered. “Fishing and hunting licenses for 2011 brought in $783,958,245 for the nation.” She pulled up the computer screen with her research.
“That’s just licenses?” The tiger cat sat on her haunches. “Easy money.”
“Sure is. All each state has to do is give the person a piece of paper with the year marked on it. No service, no nothing. Any idiot can do that.”
“True, but there are people who want to stop those activities.” Sneaky peered more closely at the screen. “Colorado sells the most licenses. Hmm. Let’s see.” They pulled up the information gathered by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. “Virginia makes almost fifteen million dollars. We should make more.”
“That’s what the C.O. says.” Pewter had heard the human talk about fish and wildlife management ad nauseam.
However, even if she pontificated to excess, the domesticated animal did listen. Pewter wasn’t so stupid as not to realize there was a connection between managing wildlife and taking care of domestic animals. The important thing was for humans to recognize their impact on all animals. Sometimes they did. Mostly, they didn’t.
“Hey, look at Wyoming,” Sneaky said. “It has the least number of humans in the country, but the state makes $28,395,536. Somebody’s thinking straight in their state government. Mother always says state government has to solve problems. Federal government just prints more money.”
“I suppose,” Pewter murmured. “You’ve got me thinking about things differently now. This huge national figure of $783,958,245 is found money, gold on the ground. You simply pick it up. It also doesn’t reflect the revenue spent by wildlife enthusiasts. Some of that stuff is really expensive.”
Sneaky Pie chimed in, “They spend money on stays in motels or special camps, on food, trucks, buying four-wheel-drive vehicles. The list goes on and on. However, fishing and wildlife means clean money. No pollution. Let’s start there.”
“Well, I did check some of the surrounding income. The estimate on that kind of money is one-hundred-twenty-two-point-three billion dollars,” Pewter proudly revealed.
“Wow. Pewter, this is incredible. Take that figure and the seventy-four billion dollars the cattle industry brings in annually and those two things alone make one-hundred-ninety-six-point-three billion dollars. I haven’t even added into account what chickens, turkeys, goats, hogs produce. It’s overwhelming. With these figures, I don’t see how anyone—human or otherwise—could resist my commonsense arguments.”
“Money talks. Bullshit walks. That’s what our human says.” Pewter laughed.
“Then I was thinking some more about our conversation with the Downy Woodpecker, a small fellow by woodpecker standards, but he is bigger than a house wren. In our country, there are twenty-two kinds of woodpeckers, although people say the Ivory-billed Woodpecker is extinct. I know I’ve never seen one, but who knows, let’s hope there are a few out there. Anyway, twenty-two kinds of birds that eat bugs from trees. There are the swallows and bats, and plenty of birds who eat on the wing, catching bugs as they fly. Bugs or not, all those creatures protect the food supply.”
“Sneaky, this is too big for us. You need a campaign team with paid researchers, publicity people, media experts. We’re just two simple farm cats and two farm dogs.”
“And Mr. Jefferson was one man,” said Sneaky. “Sojourner Truth was one woman. They never gave up. And when Sojourner Truth started walking from town to town to tell her truth, who could have known she would inspire people to this day? Every movement starts with one voice decrying injustice. America recognizes only human effort. Well, I’m only one cat, but I will be heard.”
“Sneaky, we don’t have any money. All this research has shown me that you can be the best candidate with the best ideas in the nation—if you aren’t funded, if you don’t have a good staff, you aren’t going to make it.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t shake things up. I can make change.” A determined look crossed the tiger cat’s face.
Footsteps alerted them. Pewter turned off the computer.
“Hi.”
The two cats meowed as the C.O., tired, walked into the room.
“Are you two hungry?”
“Fresh tuna! Delmonico steak! Mouse tartare!” Pewter rapturously replied.
“Give me one minute. Just one minute.” The human sat down, clicked on the computer, looked to select what she wanted, saw something unfamiliar, and pulled that up. She read aloud: “Fangs glowing neon white, eyes burning bright, the vampire cats attacked the terrified Great Dane.” The human jumped back in alarm as Pewter flew off the desk.
Sneaky, bewildered, looked into the C.O.’s eyes.
“I must be losing my mind,” the human said, looking back again at the words on the screen.
The tiger cat jumped off the desk, following Pewter’s scent. The fat gray cat had scooted out the back animal door.
“What’s with her?” In the kitchen, Tucker lifted her head. She’d been napping on the floor after the morning’s chores.
Sneaky zipped out the animal door in time to see Pewter fleeing to the old springhouse.
Within a minute, Sneaky slipped through the old wooden door, slightly ajar. She was greeted with the fresh scent of cool spring water running through the sluice.
“Leave me alone.” Pewter sniffed.
Sneaky was incredulous. “Vampire cats?”
Pewter shot back, “Why not? It’s vampire everything. You think you’re so hot. Well, I will write the smash book of the year. Vampire cats! I’ve done some research of my own. Thirty-nine million people, give or take, have a cat or cats. That’s a lot of potential readers. Plus, there are other people who like cats. My potential fan base is enormous. I’m a celebrity waiting to happen. I’ll be rich as Midas!”
“Before your close-up, you might want to shed a few pounds,” cracked Sneaky. “And just because there are those kinds of numbers doesn’t mean those humans read.”
“Vampires,” Pewts enthused. “Everyone these days wants to read about vampires. And a movie deal will surely follow. Oh, I can just see the vampires with their long fangs, glowing green eyes. And then the screams of their victims! Blood dripping off the fangs. Vampire cats. I’m telling you!” Pewter became quite excited. It was alarming. “Furthermore, I’m sick of being portrayed as a fat diva!”
“You take it too personally.” Sneaky demurred because she did indeed think Pewter a very fat diva.
“I’m not even putting you in my book. You will not be a featured character. My cats will be deep thinkers, world travelers—not some hick tiger cat.”
“Fine.” Sneaky sighed. “Come on, Mother’s making chicken sandwiches, and that means fresh chicken.”
“You’re trying to trick me.”
“Pewter, if you want to stay here in the springhouse, go right ahead. If you want to write about vampire cats, go for it, Tolstoy. I hope it works. Good luck to you. It’s a rough business. I just hope when you hit it big, you’ll contribute to my campaign. You’ve already been a big help at my side on my listening tour.”
“Don’t forget my research.” Pewts pouted.
“Yes, I was just getting to that.” Sneaky smiled.
“Fresh chicken—truly?”
“Fresh chicken.”
A spring in their steps, the cats trotted up from the little creek. Campaigning meant listening to ever
yone, Sneaky realized. She wasn’t just one cat. She represented many and varied interests, pandering to their egos and, most important, giving credit to others for work you’ve done. Sneaky hoped she was equal to the challenge.
Once in the kitchen, Tally ran up to report on the C.O.: “She’s muttering about vampire cats.”
The trio of animals looked over at her, now slapping Duke’s mayonnaise onto bread.
“You know how she gets.” Pewter airily tossed this off. “Bizarre ideas pop into her head.”
One Moment in Time
During that evening’s sunset, cumulus clouds turned gold, then pink to scarlet, fading to lavender with slashes of purple. It was breathtaking.
Cats, dogs, birds in their nests, the night birds preparing to forage, the foxes, bobcats, bears, deer, beavers, muskrats, and even the craven coyotes all beheld the glorious spectacle.
Humans did, too. The C.O. had phoned some of her good friends to make sure they were watching the symphony of color. With darkness came the night scents. The earth seemed more pungent, the pines sharper. The last of the fruit tree blossoms summoned up a final trumpet of sweetness.
Wearing a sweater, the human sat on the porch in an Adirondack chair badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. The usual crew gathered below on the floor. An old serviceable lantern sat on the wooden side table outside. Sneaky watched as the human lit a match, took a deep breath, then blew it out, apparently thinking better of it, a decision Sneaky agreed with. The lantern’s oil gave off such a strong odor. Bad though human noses are, it seemed even the C.O. preferred the night’s fresh fragrances.
They watched as the owl lifted off from the barn’s cupola, circled once, then headed for the fields. Bats darted in and out. Turtles shut up for the night. Snakes crawled into their holes, as did field mice. Rabbits withdrew to their hutches. The cats could see every detail. The dogs, eyes not as good, could still perceive movement. The C.O. watched as well. Human eyes were quite good, although their night vision was weak.
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