The Unscratchables

by Cornelius Kane

  Humphrey MacFluff retired with diabetes, Bud Borzoi got a mysterious promotion to a governmental security force, Nipper Sweeney was buried along with his research about Kitty and the Cat, and the carcass of Carlos the Jackal was never recovered. The escalating war between the Afghans and the Persians meanwhile made a barkfest out of the United Breeds, the foundations were laid for Babylon Towers, Brewster Goodboy and Lucky Palomine got reelected in a landslide, and my ex got engaged to my former friend Spike.

  But something else happened at the same time. Oscar Lap of the FBI, in combination with Attorney General Barkus Bojangles and Justice Roxie Flowzer of the Department of Order and Discipline, made official his plan to set up a brand-new investigative unit, completely independent of existing law enforcement agencies. The first recruit was a Siamese cat called Cassius Lap. The second recruit was a hair-triggered bull terrier called Max McNash. The third recruit, our legal eagle, was a gasbagging old attorney called Thomas Schrödinger. Along with many others, herded together over the next few months, we made a fierce pack of incorruptible agents, desk hounds, tech noses, and dirt-diggers.

  Officially we had no name. Unofficially we were the Unscratchables.

  By January, we had the know-how—and the meat tickets—to infiltrate the retagged Pavlov and mike their conference rooms. And this was how, via the hired help, we got our sniffers into Reynard’s up-country manor that day and heard his guests mew and growl about their evil plans to reel back the national intelligence with reality television, game shows, snarl music, comic book movies, tinned news, hiss-and-poke editorials, celebrity scandals, sleaze sheets, humpshows, horoscopes, ghost yappers, stroke-and-tickle books, bitch-lit, thrillers by branded bulls, and especially muttonheaded mystery novels told by dog narrators.

  Through hidden cameras we watched them toast each new suggestion with yak milk and blood-tainted springwater. We watched them chomp their food and lick their paws and toss catmints into their gobblers. We saw them slink off to the armory to choose weapons for the after-dinner hunt. We observed, at closer range, as they spilled out of the house and fanned out across the fields to hunt for the predrugged lambs. In particular, we tracked Phineas Reynard as he peeled off to a hedged-off corner of the estate, where the finest specimens had been hidden.

  We watched him, dressed in his tweed jacket and galoshes, pass what he thought was a particularly ugly sheep. We watched him stop beside what he thought was a particularly empty tree.

  We watched him raise his sheep-shooter. We watched him aim at a juicy lamb.

  We watched him squint his eye.

  We watched him start to squeeze the trigger.

  Then—

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  The voice came from behind and above.

  Reynard stopped squeezing. His eye unsquinted.

  “An unregistered fox firing an unregistered rifle? I can’t tell you how many laws that violates.”

  Reynard didn’t run, didn’t flinch, didn’t do anything at all—just lowered the weapon and looked around.

  Cassius Lap spoke from the tree above. “Forgive me if I interrupted, Phineas, but I’m an incorrigible pedant when it comes to the law.”

  Reynard looked up, shielding his eyes against the sunlight. “Why it’s Special Agent Lap,” he said, as if welcoming an old friend. “Were you really on the guest list? It must have escaped my attention.”

  Lap smiled. “When necessary I bend the rules,” he said, “but unlike you I never break them.” He dropped nimbly from the branch to the grass.

  “Break them?” Reynard shrugged innocently. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. An unregistered fox? What does that mean?”

  “Come now.” Lap straightened. “Your own media vigorously championed the compulsory registration of minorities, did it not?”

  “That was for dog minorities, not foxes.”

  “I believe the legal definition was canidae, which includes foxes. And that means you’ve already broken the law, even without firing that weapon. Unless, of course, you’ve now officially—and not just surgically—become a cat?”

  Reynard narrowed his little peepers. “I said you were an interesting cat. It seems I wasn’t wrong.”

  “I like the word ‘interesting.’”

  “And yet”—Reynard slowly raised the sheep-shooter—“with that white fur…with the sun in my face…with the wind blowing…and with dust in my eyes…”

  “Phineas”—Lap frowned—“you’re not really going to say you mistook me for a lamb, are you?”

  Reynard glanced around. “I believe we’re all alone out here.” He curled a digit around the trigger. “And no one would dare challenge me, in any event.”

  “As it happens you’re wrong about that, I’m afraid.”

  “About being challenged?”

  “About being alone.” Now Lap nodded to me over Reynard’s shoulder. “Have you never heard, dear Phineas, of the old adage, ‘Beware the bull terrier in sheep’s clothing’?”

  It was at this point that I shucked off my sheepskins, stood up, and strode over to Reynard, resting my fat snout on his bony shoulder.

  “Ding dong dite,” I breathed, “Doggie likes to bite.”

  But again Reynard didn’t squeal, didn’t jolt, didn’t look anything but amused. “My my,” he said, glancing back, “I do seem to be outnumbered.”

  “And the firing pin of that rifle has been removed,” Lap added, “as an added precaution.”

  “Well, well,” Reynard said, lowering the weapon again. “Trespassing on private property and tampering with private firearms? I can’t imagine how many laws that violates.”

  “I told you, Phineas, I don’t break the rules. I have a warrant in my pocket if you really need to inspect it. And disabling an illegal firearm is a duty, not a crime.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I’m afraid so. And in any case”—Lap smiled—“if you really wish to continue on the subject of lawbreaking we’re more than willing to consult our voluminous surveillance records. We’ve been following you rather attentively, you see, for the last six months…”

  “Oh?” For the first time Reynard actually looked ruffled.

  “Indeed,” said Lap. “And there’s a multitude of places where we might begin. Perhaps, for instance, with that afternoon two months ago, when you strolled brazenly across the lawns of Cattery Park? You know, the one with the signs clearly stating NO CANINES ALLOWED?”

  “Or maybe,” I added, jabbing him in the back, “that morning last January when you were swishing through the clock market and couldn’t help yourself. Remember, pal? When you stuck two spring-loaded chickens under your coat?”

  “Or even,” Lap said, “that night four months ago when you—how can I put this?—unburdened yourself on the sidewalk of Sovereign Street and failed to pick up the deposit?”

  I frowned at Lap. “Remind me again—what’s the sentence for minorities with three or more convictions?”

  Lap grimaced. “Mandatory neutering, I believe.”

  “That’s right,” I sniggered. “Mandatory nutcracking.”

  Reynard’s fox smirk slowly uncurled. He looked at me and he looked at Lap. And finally he nodded. “Well, well—it seems you’ve been busy out there.”

  “We take pride in our work,” Lap said.

  “And it seems you have me cornered—congratulations.”

  “We don’t do it for plaudits.”

  “All right.” Reynard grunted. “What is it that you want? A payoff, is that it?”

  “We don’t want your money, Phineas.”

  “Real estate, I suppose?”

  “Real estate?”

  “Every cat—every dog—wants territory. Let’s not play games.”

  But Lap only shook his head. “We don’t want your real estate, Phineas.”

  “Fame? You want to win ribbons?”

  “We don’t want any ribbons either.”

  “You want someone to stroke yo
u—an all-day stroker?”

  “Please, Phineas, we’re not interested in personal gratification. We only wish to issue you with a polite caution, in fact.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “No, I mean it,” said Lap. “We just want you to know that we’ll always be stalking you. That we can’t be corrupted. And we can’t be shaken loose.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And oh”—Lap acted like he’d just thought of something—“there is something you can do for us, yes. You might call it a demand. We’d much prefer to call it a request.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Now Lap smiled. “We’d like you to go back to that manor, call in all your guests, and reconvene the meeting. And then we’d like you to make a special announcement. We’d like you to say that you’re tired of dining with toads, wolves, weasels, and swine. You’re tired of plotting in boardrooms. You’re tired of trying to dominate the world with ropes, leashes, and command words. And you’re especially tired of lowering the bar of intelligence, when what you really want to do is make everyone jump a little higher. It would help, by the way, if you spoke in a loud, clear voice, so there’s no confusion when we transcribe your words from our tapes.”

  Reynard stared at him.

  “And if anyone asks what brought about this change of heart,” Lap went on smoothly, “you might say that you met a dog and cat while you were strolling in the fields. And that this dog and cat—who were unusually persuasive—convinced you that they were no longer interested in answering to bells and whistles. They would no longer be barked at, dogwhipped, scared by thunder, dragged through pits, rubbed in their own filth, locked up in cages, distracted by toys, or left out in the cold. They were no longer happy, in short, to be treated like pups and kittens.”

  Reynard shook his head. “My guests are not the types who respond to lectures.”

  “Then disguise it as news,” Lap said. “I’m sure you can find a way.”

  Reynard sniffed. “Is that all?”

  “Indeed.” Lap gave a slight bow. “But we’re extremely grateful to you for hearing us out. For welcoming us onto your magnificent estate. We’d love to accept your invitation to supper, of course, but regrettably we have much work to attend to.”

  I poked him in the back again. “Catch ya later, manipulator.”

  “Unless,” added Lap, turning, “you give us no reason to catch you at all. Vulpem te esse memento.”

  We started heading across the field toward a break in the hedge, but Reynard hadn’t finished.

  “I must say I’m disappointed, Detective,” he called out. “A bull terrier side by side with a cat? Working in tandem with a Siamese? Sniffing through the same garbage? Lapping from the same bowl? Whatever’s happened to the world?”

  I looked back just long enough to give him my crocodile smirk. “Must’ve got me confused with a creature of instinct,” I muttered, and jerked my bobble at the tooter. “Let’s scat, Cass.”

  “You got it, Crusher.”

  Off the leash. On your tail. Unscratchable.