Sneaky Pie for President (12 page)

“No.”

“Did you have a rank in the Army?”

“No.”

“So you did all that work for free? No pay, no hazard pay, no retirement pay?”

“Not one penny. I did get free medical care in the service, though, but not now, of course. We rely on private citizens to help us after our duty is over.”

“If I am elected I promise that all animals who have served in the Armed Forces will get pay, get retirement pay, and all the benefits that accrue to humans. I will work unceasingly for this.”

“We’ve been in all the wars,” said Daisy. “Many of us were killed. Before mechanized warfare, think of the horses and mules, and what about carrier pigeons?” The shepherd knew she and the other animals throughout time often got a raw deal.

“And yet animals are proud to serve,” said Sneaky. “There were one-point-five million horses and mules who lost their lives in the War Between the States, and of all the horses taken over to Belgium and France for World War I, none came home, I think.” Sneaky knew most all of them
died, shoved in unmarked graves, if buried at all. World War I was unremitting horror for humans and animals.

“Would you serve again?” Tucker wanted to know.

“I would. I liked the Army, but remember I was bred for this. I think it’s the same for people. Some can take the discipline and danger, but most can’t. I do think we should receive compensation, though. I mean, I can’t enlist, but once any of us are in there, we deserve consideration.”

“I see. What about the dolphins? The Navy trains them, doesn’t it?” Sneaky wondered.

“I’ve heard that, but I’ve never met one. It’s hard enough to meet land animals from the other branches of the service. Just about impossible to meet the water mammals.”

“Sneaky, that’s farther down the road. Stick with land animals,” Tucker advised.

“She’s right.” The shepherd noticed that Pewter had finally collapsed under a huge pin oak.

Tally was nowhere in sight.

“Will you help me in my campaign?” Sneaky asked the shepherd. “Will you ask your comrades to support me?”

“I will,” the shepherd vowed, glad to have another important task.

Once up at the barns, they joined the two humans sitting in the shade in two directors’ chairs under the sloping barn roofline.

Pewter had now also joined them, but no Tally.

Leaping up when the dog and cat appeared, Pewter shouted. “No reptiles! No reptiles in your campaign! I will leave, I swear it. No snakes allowed.”

Sneaky laughed. “Turtles aren’t so bad, they’re amphibians,” she protested.

“They can snap,” said Pewter. “If it’s cold-blooded, the hell with it.”

“There’s a lot of cold-blooded humans out there,” the shepherd coolly said.

“Don’t represent them, either.” Pewter remained adamant.

“Fine. No reptiles.” Sneaky sighed, but she was just as glad not to have to talk to them. Reptiles were difficult to converse with; those split tongues of snakes always upset her.

Tally crept out of the barn.

“Speaking of reptiles.” Pewter puffed up again.

“What is all this hissing and spitting?” the C.O. admonished Pewter.

“Oh, you have no idea. No idea at all,” Pewter replied, with the perfect blend of indignation and anger.

Sitting right by the C.O., Tally took no chances and stayed quiet.

Sneaky counseled Pewter, “Just forget it.”

“Forget it. Forget it! I could be lying down there on that rock, in the throes of death by poison or strangulation.
Painful, protracted death. And she”—Pewter glared right at Tally—“makes light of it.”

The woman called Tiff said, “People think animals don’t have feelings, friends, preferences. Obviously your gray cat does.”

“She is a creature of many opinions.” The C.O. laughed, and all the animals except Pewter laughed also.

“I do have many opinions, and they are all correct.” Pewter had the last word.

Clever as a Fox

Little rain made the ground hard and the grasses brittle, tufts of the latter flying behind Sneaky Pie’s paws as she raced at top speed over the back pasture toward an ancient walnut tree.

Flying overhead, the Yellow Warbler sang out, “They’re gaining!”

Led by the head female, running in broad daylight, five coyotes thought they had an easy lunch.

The tiger cat summoned up one last burst of speed and made it to the walnut. She leapt high, grabbed a low branch, and scurried out of reach. She was breathing hard as she sought to memorize her pursuers’ faces.

On her hind paws, the lead coyote stretched up the tree as far as she could, but the cat was well out of reach.

“You were lucky today, pipsqueak,” the sixty-pound coyote said, baring her impressive fangs.

Sneaky, with the Yellow Warbler on the branch above her, remained silent.

The son of the lead coyote, weighing about forty pounds, whined, “Momma, let’s go. I’m hungry. We can bust out some rabbits.”

The mother licked his handsome face, then turned and trotted off, the others following her.

“Close call,” said the warbler. The pretty little bird watched the coyotes retreat.

“I never thought they’d show themselves in daylight,” said Sneaky. “I’ve smelled them. I’m pretty sure I know where the den is. They’re two miles from home.”

“And my, aren’t they big? Lots bigger than out West,” the bird noted. “That gang of hooligans has been bragging to their relatives about how much there is to eat in the East, about how thick their coats are, and how big they are. They even boast about how they can take on wolves if they have to.”

“I heard the humans say the Wildlife Department has released wolves down in southwestern Virginia. Don’t know if it’s true, but they’re worried. Sooner or later those wolves will reach us.”

“Won’t be a ground nester left, or a rabbit,” the bird said and sighed. The sunlight caught her feathers, so she glowed
almost a neon yellow. “Why’d the humans do that? Release vicious wolves into their habitat?”

“Because wolves were once native to Virginia. Elk, too. Hey, once upon a time dinosaurs were native to Virginia. Are they next?” The cat’s wind was restored, and she was back to speechifying.

The two shared a laugh before spotting a gray fox, low to the ground, speeding across the high pasture.

“Hey, come up here,” the Yellow Warbler called.

The beautiful animal hurried to the walnut tree, saw the cat but came on up anyway, as grays can climb.

The gray fox settled on a lower, wide branch below Sneaky. “Smelled the coyotes,” he said. “They will kill and eat anything. I believe if times get hard enough they would surround and kill a human.”

“Pray for rain, because if we don’t get some, times will be hard,” the Yellow Warbler replied.

“We’ve had low-pressure systems, some sprinkles, but just not enough moisture,” the fox said, nodding. “It’s May, though, and rains will come. I don’t worry about drought until July.”

“U-m-m”
was all the cat replied.

The Yellow Warbler flew away, then flew back. “The coyotes are heading south. Right toward all that corn partway up out of the ground.”

“They’ll eat some, and so will I when it’s ready.” The
gray fox smiled. “The only thing I love more than corn, grapes. Oh, my.” He smiled broadly. “And with all these wineries around here, I can’t wait for those tiny bits of heaven to appear on the vine.”

“I thought you liked mice and rabbits best,” Sneaky said.

“Meat’s always good, but I have to work for it. Unlike you.” He chuckled. “If I can pull a ripe ear off the stalk or grab a bunch of grapes, easy peasy. So sweet. When I eat lots of corn, my coat shines. I’m only stating a fact. I’m rather a handsome fellow, if I do say so myself.”

The Yellow Warbler twittered, “You are. What’s your name?”

“Cyril. Mother gave us names starting with a
C
, since her name is Christina.”

“Like foxhounds.” Sneaky mentioned the practice among hound breeders.

“Exactly.”

“How many coyotes have moved into the area?” Sneaky wondered.

“Those five,” said Cyril, “and there’s another pack up on Ennis Mountain and, of course, the Blue Ridge is full of them.”

Ennis Mountain was a mass pushed up by a glacier, standing alone in front of the Blue Ridge. Ridges and ravines fanned off the lone hunk of rock and trees. Once east of Ennis Mountain, no mountains cropped up. If one drove
northeast, in thirty-five to forty miles, the Southwest Range loomed. Once east of that, the land rolled, then flattened, finally meeting the Atlantic Ocean.

“Ennis Mountain,” said Sneaky. “I rarely go there, but sometimes Tally chases a deer up there.” Sneaky thought about the Jack Russell’s determination after picking up a deer’s scent.

“You’d best warn her about the coyotes,” Cyril advised.

“I will. Don’t know what good it will do, but I will.” Sneaky looked up to the Yellow Warbler. “I didn’t smell the coyote until I reached Jim and Joan Klemic’s bridge. When did you first see them?” Sneaky asked the fox, mentioning the neighbors’ bridge, so well built that one could drive tanks over it.

“The coyotes smelled you before you smelled them,” replied the gray. “But I think the cowbirds might have told them, too. They’ve been shadowing you.”

The tiger cat considered this. “Once they’re against you they’re really against you, aren’t they?”

“They never forget a slight.” The Yellow Warbler held out her wings to catch the sun. “They won’t try to kill me, but I can guarantee for as long as I live there will be a cowbird egg in my nest.”

“Push it out. I like eggs.” Cyril smiled.

“Believe me, I will,” said the bird. “What do you think of the coyotes?”

“As long as there’s enough to eat, I’m okay,” said the gray. “So’s the red fox. If the food gets tight, they will either kill us or run us out of the territory. They’ll kill house dogs, cats, you name it. Of course, if you all travel in packs you have a better chance of fighting them off. Basically cowards, they’ll avoid a fight unless they’re sure they can win. They are clever and omnivorous, but then so am I, and I think we foxes are smarter than they are.”

“Really?” Sneaky liked this fellow.

“I can turn scent on and off; they can’t,” Cyril bragged a bit.

“My human says that about foxes, and people who don’t live in the country don’t believe her.”

“Your human puts out salt licks for the horses and cattle; I should thank her.” Cyril stretched out on the broad limb. “How come she doesn’t have a mate? I don’t, but I’m only a year old. I will have one next year. I’ll be big enough and strong enough so I can fight off my rivals. Life is better with a vixen at one’s side.”

“Well, I agree,” Sneaky replied. “I don’t have a mate, but I’ve been spayed. I do have three best friends, although there are days when I could kill Pewter.”

“The fat gray cat?” Cyril asked.

“Yes.”

“See her a lot when I’m down at the barn. She rummages
in the empty feed bags before they’re gathered and tied up. She’ll eat anything, won’t she?”

Sneaky laughed. “She likes sweet feed as much as the horses or you, I guess.” She paused then said, “Humans don’t always go in twos. Maybe it isn’t natural for them, or maybe it once was and now it isn’t.”

“That’s impossible,” squeaked the bird. The Yellow Warbler folded her wings. “Who can you snuggle up to in the nest when it snows? A girl’s got to lay eggs, and it takes two to feed them. Now, I’m not saying my mate is perfect, but he works hard and he’s good at repairing our nest.”

“You just wait, next year I will win the prettiest vixen in this country,” Cyril dreamed.

“What about Charlie?” Sneaky asked the fox. “I assume the gray male I see is your brother. Mother calls him Charlie.”

“M-m-m.”
Cyril frowned. “I will just have to compete for my vixen against my brother. He’s cocky, but I’ll outfox him. He’s going to paint himself in a corner.”

“He taunts the hounds, I’ve seen him,” the little bird filled in the cat. “His brother does, he goes down to the kennels. Walks all around and taunts the foxhounds.”

“They won’t get him,” Cyril declared. “He can evade them easily. Plus, he knows when his scent is strong and when it isn’t. Charlie gets the whole hunting game. We
worry more that someday Charlie will sass one of those coyotes or do something similarly reckless. If he gets killed, it’s going to be the coyote or a car—I hope neither, but sometimes Charlie has no sense.”

“Ah.”
Sneaky did understand. “Well, my money’s on you finding a beautiful girl.”

Cyril beamed. “We’ll sing together.”

Foxes bark, answering one another back and forth. This is what Cyril liked to think of as singing.

“My human sings.” Sneaky pondered this. “Back to this mate stuff. Humans can’t find each other as easily as we do. They make it entirely too complicated. My human doesn’t even look.”

“Sad.” The Yellow Warbler couldn’t imagine life without her fellow.

“I agree. I see her sitting at the desk, doing her sums, trying to figure things out, and I think it would be easier if there were two of them doing sums, chores, planning. But who knows?”

“They drink. Your human gets a mate who drinks and it’s all over.” Cyril spoke with authority. “I visit most of the farms around here. I check the garbage first, of course, and some cans are so full of bottles they can’t hardly put the lid on. I hear those folks fighting.”