The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel

by Radhika R. Dhariwal

  Shaking, Squirrel scrambled onto the bar platform and untied his sack. His paws fumbled. He had never gotten so much attention, and the little red PetPost slave could not help feeling very nervous. He half choked, half coughed, and said, “Sirs, madams, sh-should I begin?”

  The room roared yes so loudly that Squirrel almost fell off the counter. Hurriedly he emptied the sack on the platform. Instead of a stack of leaf-envelopes, out came big, rectangular parcels. Each was wrapped in lilac wax paper emblazoned with the letter M. Squirrel recognized the M with awe: the paper itself had come all the way from Mellifera, the walled city of bees.

  Reverently Squirrel picked up a package. It had a tiny card on it. Scribbled on the card was the name of each invitee to Smitten’s wedding.

  Squirrel cleared his throat and called out, “Mrs. . . . Mrs. Falguny.”

  The room shook as cats started elbowing one another out of the way to catch a glimpse of the recently widowed Mrs. Falguny. Squirrel saw Olfisse, the Pedipurr’s security cat, amongst the crowd, craning her neck.

  From the pit of fur, a frail little cat with salt-and-pepper hair came shyly forward. The other cats moved aside; the first invitee had been announced.

  “For you, ma’am,” said Squirrel, handing the package to Mrs. Falguny.

  “Thank you, Squirrel. I just wish my husband could’ve been here,” she said quietly before dragging her parcel away. Squirrel waited until she had hobbled back to her spot before announcing the next invitee.

  “The next package is for . . . Lady Blouse,” said Squirrel. He heard a purr, and then saw a sleek, black Bombay cat with twinkling hazel eyes shimmy up to him.

  “Ah buhlieve that’s me, dahling,” she drawled, and winked at Squirrel. As Squirrel handed her the parcel, his heart hammered in his eardrums. He blushed. He had always been very fond of pretty Lady Blouse.

  Squirrel pulled out another parcel. He smiled. “Mr. Brosher.”

  Brosher ran up to Squirrel, bowed, and said, “Good Squirrel and friend of mine, rip open my gift and let it shine, let us all see if it’s fine, and I shall stop this rhyme, ’cos I can think of no other line . . .”

  And, with that poetic attempt, Brosher signaled Squirrel to open his package onstage. Every curious cat in the room began to clap.

  Squirrel was so nervous he could barely remove the soft, lilac wrapper. With clammy paws he opened the box. Inside, on a bed of pink satin, lay an ivory collar. The name “Brosher” was embossed on it.

  Squirrel picked up the milky collar. His arms trembled as he held it up in the air.

  The effect was perfect. The cats oohed and aaahed and purred and panted. Then, just when Squirrel thought he should read out the name of the next invitee, Brosher pointed to a note that came with the collar. “Read it aloud, Squirrel.”

  Squirrel’s knees turned to putty. He could not imagine reading aloud, especially in front of this crowd. Then again, he could not disobey a Pedipurr cat.

  So, trying to keep his vocal cords from splitting like hairs, Squirrel gulped and began to read.

  Dear Brosher,

  We would be honored if you would join us as we celebrate our wedding. The event will be held on the first full moon after the spring equinox. The venue is a surprise. Please come to the rosewood jetty beside the Pedipurr, and we will have ferries to transport you. We also ask that you wear this collar, so that if you get lost, our ushers can help you find your way to the wedding. We look forward to seeing you there.

  Warm wishes,

  Cheska and Smitten

  When Squirrel finished reading the letter, he realized that the mood in the dark Tiger’s Tooth had lightened considerably. The cats seemed to have realized that there were enough parcels for everybody, and they began to relax and wait for their names to be called out. One by one, they whisked up to the stage to get their invitations from Squirrel. Soon all the cats had collars fastened around their necks. All except one. Only Mrs. Sox had not received her invite. Luckily for her, there were still two parcels left in the sack.

  With her belly sagging on the floor and a scowl sagging on her face, Mrs. Sox lugged herself over to the bar where Squirrel stood.

  As Squirrel reached for the parcel with her name on it, she snatched it out of his paw. “You could not have been any slower, could you? I bet you thought it’d be funny to leave my parcel till the very end? Enjoyed making me squirm, you shriveled squirt?”

  Squirrel, who was used to Mrs. Sox’s sharp words, said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sox; I didn’t mean anything by it. Please don’t mind me, I’m nobody . . .”

  Mrs. Sox did not listen. She simply turned around and stalked off, her parcel tucked safely between the folds of her fat.

  But Mrs. Sox’s jibe was enough to bring Squirrel out of his pretend play. For the last few moments he had felt important, like he was someone worth knowing. A room full of cats had focused only on him, and they were the cats of the Pedipurr, no less. He knew he was only getting such attention because he was delivering Smitten’s wedding invitations, but he had enjoyed it all the same.

  Flushing with embarrassment, Squirrel stuffed the last parcel into his sack as quickly as he could. How could he have been naive enough to pretend that he could fit in with the Pedipurr cats? How could he have been so stupid . . .

  “Meeeeaaaaaooooooowwwww!”

  A sickening peal rattled the room. Squirrel dropped his sack on the floor. He turned around.

  A note shook in Mrs. Sox’s paw; an angry vein throbbed on her flat forehead. Her empty parcel lay on the floor, torn open. There was not an inch of ivory in sight.

  “What’s goin’ on?” said Squirrel. No one heard him. All eyes in the room were fixed on the snarling Mrs. Sox.

  The fat Persian cat meowed again and pounced on the sack that Squirrel had just dropped. She dragged out the only remaining package and ripped it open. Slowly she picked up the ivory collar, her eyes fixed on the name embossed on it.

  Suddenly she chucked the collar at Squirrel, almost knocking him off the counter. She dropped the note from her hand and marched out of the room.

  Brosher got to the note first. “I wonder what made Sox the Ox so mad,” he said, and began to read it aloud.

  Mrs. Sox,

  We heard that you strongly object to our commitment to each other. We would not want you to betray your beliefs by attending our wedding, and hence, we will not burden you with an invitation. Instead we are thrilled to give your place to Squirrel, the friendly PetPost slave, who has faithfully delivered this and many other messages to both you and us for many seasons. We trust this message will be welcome to him. We hope that we have spared you the hassle of declining our invitation.

  Cheska and Smitten

  As he finished reading the note, Brosher burst into a flurry of giggles. The rest of the cats were shaking too. Some with laughter. Others with shock.

  Squirrel, who was tracing the words “PetPost Squirrel” on the ivory collar that Mrs. Sox had hurled at him, spoke first. “This collar is mine? I don’t understand. I’m a slave . . . I’ve never . . . How’s this possible? What do I do?”

  Lady Blouse came up to him, a pretty, lopsided smile on her lips. She purred, “Dahling, all you need to do is find sumthin’ to wear.”

  The Old and the New

  Squirrel opened his wardrobe. He knew what he would find. Three outfits hung in a row—they were all his PetPost slave uniforms.

  Squirrel frowned. The uniform jackets had faded and looked bald—like they had been washed too many times. The pants had shrunk and looked like cuffed shorts. The buttons down the jacket fronts drooped on thin thread. Indeed, one jacket was missing a brass button already. Lady Blouse had been spot-on—Squirrel had to get some new clothes for Smitten’s wedding.

  The problem was, however, that Squirrel had never shopped before. After all, he was a slave. The only thing he ever did was run errands for his boss—and for that he would always wear his uniform. Up until this very moment, Squirrel had never needed
any other outfits. Hence, he had absolutely no clue where to find clothes for this wedding.

  “I’m caught in a bit of a soggy sandwich . . . ,” Squirrel was muttering to himself, when an idea struck him. Although he himself was a fashion fool, Squirrel knew the most fashion-conscious creature in Bimmau County very well. In fact, Squirrel was his slave.

  Squirrel’s boss was Bacchu Banoose, a spectacularly lazy mongoose who happened to own the famous PetPost Mail. Although he owned the business, he himself was not inclined to work. Instead he had his slave Squirrel run around delivering the letters, parcels, and packages in Bimmau, while he himself spent his days shopping, crimping, and primping so he always looked as perfect as a poodle. But now the PetPost Squirrel was going to try to use his boss’s one expertise to help him find something to wear to Smitten’s wedding.

  So, the next morning after his chores, Squirrel went to speak to his boss.

  “Don’t bother me with work stuff now,” Bacchu said with a backward wave when he saw Squirrel. A beret crowned the mongoose’s block-of-a-head, and his feet were soaked in an oyster-shell Jacuzzi.

  “Actually, boss, I was hoping to speak to you about . . . about . . .”

  “Get on with it, Squirrel. My groomer will be here soon. Wait . . . is that homemade Mud Milkshake in your paw? Can I have it?”

  “Of course,” said Squirrel, gulping down the dryness in his throat as he handed his boss the drink. He had made the thick, muddy slush for himself, but he knew better than to deny his boss anything. Instead he said, “Boss, I don’t know if you heard. I’ve been invited . . . to . . . to Smitten and Cheska’s wedding.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Bacchu Banoose, taking a deep, loud sniff of Squirrel’s milkshake.

  “Sir, I was hoping you’d help me get an outfit for the wedding.” He swallowed. “I don’t own any clothes except my PetPost slave uniforms.”

  Bacchu forgot all about the homemade Mud Milkshake. He looked at Squirrel, his thick jaw dropping as though it were weighed down by a sack of potatoes.

  “Squirrel, how could you possibly not own anything except those?” asked Bacchu, wrinkling his nose at Squirrel’s uniform.

  “I don’t know, boss . . . I’ve never needed clothes before.”

  Bacchu shook his head. “I’ve never worn that hideous uniform. Not when I was young. Not now. In fact, I don’t even own it. When I was thirteen, I already owned twenty tunics. And you . . .” Bacchu stuck his bulb-of-a-thumb into his waistcoat. He looked Squirrel up and down. “But, then again, we’re . . . very different.”

  Squirrel nodded. Bacchu was right. When Bacchulius was just a baby, his mother and father had started the PetPost Mail—a business that kept them very, very busy and made them very, very wealthy. Baby Bacchu grew up with tree trunks full of money that he spent on whatever he wanted: spun-silk clothes, a house with snakeskin wallpaper, and even three red slaves—a mother, a father, and their infant son—to do his bidding. Now that very same slave son, Squirrel, decided to play on his boss’s love for shopping to find the perfect ensemble for Smitten’s wedding.

  Squirrel pasted a sugary smile on his face. “You’re so right, boss. You’re important, fashionable, and wealthy. And me? I’m a slave. I’m a nobody! I’ve never even been invited to a party before.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Bacchu, scratching his jaw and staring at Squirrel with his big, glassy eyeballs.

  “You have such an eye for style, boss. You’ll know exactly what kind of outfit I need,” continued Squirrel. “Maybe you could give me some pointers . . .”

  “What’s the use of pointers? You won’t understand them anyway. I’ll have to take you myself. My groomer can wait for me till I’m back,” said Bacchu, lugging his loglike legs out of the Jacuzzi and letting them drip everywhere. “There’s only one place to get clothes for Smitten’s wedding—Malmali’s Silk Studio. But Malmali is very picky about who he designs for. Luckily for you, I’ll be with you—that’ll help. But I need to know: How much can you spend?” asked Bacchu, slurping Squirrel’s Mud Milkshake noisily.

  Squirrel hesitated. “Sir, I’m not sure. I’ve never been to Priggle’s to check how much I have in my bank account. I make do with what I get in tips from the clients. My wages are sent straight to the bank, so that I can pay my rent.”

  “Rent? What rent?” asked Bacchu, spitting the word out as though it were an itchy hairball.

  “Sir, because I am a slave, I’m not allowed to own my own home. Priggle’s Bank owns the tree cottage I live in. So, my wages go directly to the bank, and Mr. Priggle deducts what I owe him in rent. I guess he deposits whatever is left in my bank account, but I have no idea how much that is.” He looked down. “I know I should’ve figured this out since I’m getting older, but I’ve never needed to till now.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Squirrel. Come, I’m taking you to Priggle’s. We must get you some money.” And, with wholly uncharacteristic enthusiasm, Bacchu Banoose took Squirrel to the bank for the first time.

  Priggle’s Bank stood on a pretty slice of beach. The building was made up of four circular apartments scooped together, sprinkled with sugar-white windows. A brown roof melted gently over the entire building.

  Squirrel licked his lips as he and Bacchu picked their way through patches of candy-red flowers spilling onto the sand.

  They entered the bank, and Squirrel found himself in an airy room. In the middle of the room, a bespectacled pig sat behind a desk.

  “Mr. Banoose! What a surprise! Why, weren’t you here just yesterday?” said the pig Priggle as he wriggled himself out of his seat.

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t spent the entire pot I took out yet, Priggle,” chortled the mongoose. “Today I’m here with my slave, Squirrel,” he said, shoving Squirrel forward.

  “Oh my!” said Priggle, shoving a scrubbed, pink hand in Squirrel’s face. “So you’re the PetPost Squirrel! Yes! The tree cottage you live in is owned by the bank. I’ve been so impressed with you—you always send your rent on time. Just like your parents used to. Yes, yes. Very impressed. Well, I’ve been putting your wages aside every full moon. Glad you’ve finally come to visit,” said Mr. Priggle, wiggling his nose so that it hoisted his spectacles up his snout. “Tell me, Squirrel, how may I help you?”

  “Hello, Mr. Priggle. Uhmm . . . I . . . I want to know how much money I have in the bank.”

  “Of course you do! It’ll take just a moment,” said Priggle, jiggling a chiseled pebble key strapped to his wrist. He ducked and began to fidget with the underbelly of the desk till it shook.

  “Hurry it along, Priggle ol’ boy,” said Bacchu, tapping his foot.

  “ ’Course, sir,” said Priggle from under the desk. When he bobbed back up, the pig said, “Squirrel, your balance is seven, three, thirty-four.”

  “Excuse me?” said Squirrel, not understanding the pudgy pig at all.

  “That means you have seven gromms, three bizkits, and thirty-four gufflings in your account,” said Priggle with a smile.

  Squirrel was shocked. He could not believe he had earned so much. He had thirty-four full gufflings at the age of thirteen? Not bad for a slave! Why, he had never spent a guffling. He had never even held a guffling in his paw!

  “How do I take some money out, sir?” he asked, his head feeling as light as a balloon.

  “I can give you up to five gufflings now. But, if you want more, you’ll have to come to the Wet Vault with me and answer your security questions.”

  “Security questions?” asked Squirrel, puzzled.

  “It’s a security measure. The questions were created when your account was opened. Just one way we keep our clients’ wealth nice and safe.”

  “I guess I’ll take five gufflings now,” said Squirrel. He had been a baby when his account was opened. How could he possibly remember what security questions he had chosen?

  “No problem, I’ll be right back,” said Mr. Priggle, trotting out of the room. When he came back, he was carrying a plate piled with curre
ncy. Licking the tips of his porky fingers, Priggle quickly separated the pile into a mound of mud patties, a few wooden squares, and four bronze cubes. He handed the plate to Squirrel. “There you go, Squirrel—four gufflings, seven bizkits, and thirty gromms . . . which makes a grand total of five gufflings.”

  “Thank you,” said Squirrel, scooping the thirty mud gromms and seven wooden bizkits into his pouch. He picked up his four gufflings, twirled them in his paw, and dropped them into his pouch—one at a time.

  As his pouch tinkled, Squirrel grinned. “I’ve never had so much money!”

  “Make sure you keep it safe. That’s a fair bit you’re withdrawing, Squirrel,” said Mr. Priggle.

  “Don’t worry, Priggle. I’m making sure Squirrel spends that bag before he gets home tonight. Toodleoo,” said Bacchu Banoose as he grabbed and yanked a suddenly concerned Squirrel straight out of Priggle’s Bank.

  “Oh, I almost forgot! Malmali, can you make my slave Squirrel something?” Bacchu said, trying on his fourth outfit. “He needs a tunic for a wedding . . . for about five gufflings.”

  Squirrel, who had been hiding behind a spool of red cloth, felt the air freeze in his lungs. He could not spend his entire five gufflings on one outfit!

  He looked at Bacchu desperately. He coughed; he hiccupped; he grunted; he almost oinked; but Bacchu did not glance his way.

  To his horror, Squirrel realized that if he did not speak up, he would end up spending five gufflings—more than his rent for three seasons—on one tunic!

  “Excuse me,” Squirrel said softly as he shuffled out of his corner. “Sir, I don’t think I can spend more than three gufflings on the outfit.”

  “Three? You’ll get nothing for three! What’s the point, Squirrel? I should’ve just taken you to Animart!” shrieked Bacchu. “You have five gufflings with you. What’re you saving them for?”

  Squirrel looked at Bacchu, all puffed up and indignant, with yellow and peach and pink cloth draped around him, looking like a swollen meringue candy. Suddenly a tightly stretched cord snapped somewhere between Squirrel’s neck and his brain. Bacchu would not bully him this time.