Sneaky Pie for President (13 page)

“Cyril, you are an observant fellow. Is there anything you would like humans to do differently?”

“Yes. Not drive so fast. Leave us alone. Fortunately, they’re easy to fool. I can be walking behind one and they never know, even if there’s a group of them. Now, if dogs are with them, that’s different. Humans are so wrapped up in whatever they’re talking about they miss everything around them. I suspect it’s a sad life.”

“Me, too,” the Yellow Warbler pronounced.

“For some of them, ’tis,” said Sneaky. “For others, they only need other humans. They’re dead to the world around them.” Sneaky reached down her paw just above Cyril’s lush coat. “I want to run for president. I want all of us—humans, animals—to cooperate and live in harmony.”

“Ah,”
Cyril simply responded.

“But you will never live in harmony with cowbirds and coyotes,” the Yellow Warbler predicted.

“You’re right,” said Sneaky. “They can form their own party. But we can do something to help other animals. I can’t force anyone to join me.”

Cyril sat up. “Animals aren’t going to live in harmony, pussycat. We eat one another.”

“I know that,” replied the tiger cat. “But if we trust the natural balance, I think that will work out. It’s when things get out of kilter—for instance”—she looked up at the Yellow Warbler—“humans have made laws so that a farmer or a hunter can’t shoot a raptor. Now, I like raptors. I understand them. We’re both hunters. That’s why it’s easy for
you and I to understand each other.” She now looked down at Cyril. “But the raptors have proliferated. They have just about wiped out the woodcocks, the grouse, so many ground nesters, including the rabbits. There’s nothing to stop them. At one time, things were in balance. Now humans have knocked it out of balance.”

“Yes, yes, that’s true,” the Yellow Warbler said.

“It will take years—decades, even—to restore order,” the cat thought out loud.

“Well, what about bringing wolves and elk back?” asked the fox.

“Cyril, before agriculture took over, yes, wolves, elk—who knows what else?—roamed this state. But while the mountains, the oceans, and the rivers remain, the surface of the land has changed. Once corn, wheat, barley, and then soybeans were put in, well, you can’t take that land and make it wild again. I mean, unless the humans just walk off and give up farming. Cattle, sheep, goats, all those animals came here once the big predators were driven off or killed.”

“True. True.” The little bird enjoyed the philosophical discussion. How far back to nature could you go?

“I believe the humans have forgotten how hard their ancestors struggled and, worse, how dangerous a big predator can be. I mean, I’m a cat, but I have no desire to sit down with my cousin the mountain lion, or even a bobcat.”

“The Wildlife Department says there aren’t really mountain lions in Virginia. The big cats that folks have spotted are descended from big cats people kept as pets that got away.” Cyril had heard the gossip. “Black panthers, swamp panthers, it’s so unrealistic I can’t believe anyone’s gullible enough to believe that the big cats they see are or were pets. There are mountain lions in Virginia,” said the fox. “Why deny it?”

“If they admit it, the government will think it has to do something about it. Don’t fret the humans with the truth.” When the Yellow Warbler laughed, it came out like a musical scale.

“Perhaps not,” said Sneaky, “but I can concentrate on human housing development. It doesn’t have to wreck the environment so much. I can focus on farming with regard to wildlife, reconsidering some of the chemicals that are used and balancing that against crop yields. Humans need money. Thankfully, we don’t. But we can help make them money, a point I intend to make clear to them.”

“I make humans money?” The Yellow Warbler was surprised.

“Yes, you do,” said Sneaky. “People pay to watch birds. They pay to learn how to watch birds, and they go on nature walks. They stay in motels and bed-and-breakfasts. Birdwatching is a big deal.” Sneaky smiled at the yellow bird, so elusive to the human eye. “That’s for starters.
People pay to fox-hunt—or chase, I should say. Cyril, you boost the economy, too. Think of the horse sales, the feed, the shoeing, the trucks to pull trailers, the clothes, and I haven’t even gotten to the costs of the hounds. Animals make money wherever we go. If we can return to a partial natural balance—we might not get the whole way there—I believe we can make them even more money.”

Cyril was intrigued. “What a thought.”

“Speak to the foxes,” said Sneaky. “Help me spread my message. Join my cause.”

“I will. Right now, let’s help each other. How about if we go to your barn? I’ll duck out before the house dogs smell me. But if we travel together, that’s some protection.”

“Good plan,” Sneaky said, beginning to back down the walnut tree.

“I’ll fly reconnaissance,” said the warbler. “I have to fly that way anyway, as my nest’s down near the river, along with Debbie and Glynnis’s nest. They are both such chatterboxes.” The Yellow Warbler liked her neighbors but wondered what they said about her behind her back.

The three animals moseyed along until the weather vane of the barn hove into sight, the nose of the horse on the vane pointing north, which was a bit unusual. Winds usually came from the north or northwest, not up from the south.

They paused for a moment to view the vane.

“Verdigris,” Sneaky said. “That’s what the C.O. calls it. I think she should climb up there and shine it.”

“Copper has a distinct scent,” said Cyril. “So different from steel or iron. It’s so pretty, but it will turn green again,” the gray fox predicted. “Well, I’m glad we got to talk.”

“Me, too,” both Sneaky and the bird replied.

As the cat headed for the barn, she felt for the first time that she truly could make a difference. And in the distance they heard the peculiar bark Cyril called singing.

Horse Sense

At the barn, Sneaky Pie jumped up and sat on the outside bench. A soft breeze rolled up from the Blue Ridge Mountains; the paddocks and larger pastures shone emerald green; the sky, robin’s-egg blue, was filled with creamy cumulus clouds. Lifting her head, the tiger cat sniffed the first tang of rain on the way. The southern wind would bring moisture from the Gulf of Mexico, far away.

Apart from sprawling on the C.O.’s bed, the barn was Sneaky’s favorite place to hang out. The smell of horses, cleaned tack, sawdust, hay, bales of rich, rich alfalfa and sweet feed created an enticing stew of aromas. A twenty-five-pound bag of dry molasses rested in the feed room. Her human liked to soak up some molasses with beet pulp, which the horses loved. The human’s feeding potions for
her animals occupied her more than her own food, to which her body bore testament.

The cat loved to stroll down to the barn in the morning while her human scooped out food and tossed out hay and alfalfa. When the C.O. plunged her hands into the beet pulp, which had soaked overnight, a rush of molasses scent would sweep through the air.

Now that the weather proved cooperative, the horses stayed outside in the pasture most of the time. Often a horse would plop down and fall asleep on its side, looking disturbingly dead, while the other horses continued munching on the pasture grass.

However, if anything disruptive or disturbing appeared, the alert horses nuzzled the sleeping one awake, and they’d investigate or run off.

A special paddock held Blue Sky, the blind Saddlebred; Shamus, the pony, also blind; and Jones, born in 1976, one good eye. Since their routine never varied, the blind animals could get around just fine, even walking into the barn from outside if need be without much help. Being a Thoroughbred, one-eyed Jones still considered himself superior to all the other types of horses on earth. As most horses on the farm were Thoroughbreds or Thoroughbred crosses, he would also fall back on his advanced age for superiority claims.

With a sagging back and gray face, the rest of him was
still a rich dark bay. He ate, lifted his head, observed the younger horses in adjoining large pastures.

“Ozzie, one of these days he’s going to nail you,” Jones warned sternly.

The ex-steeplechaser, Ozzie liked to taunt a young gelding, who had been sent from the racetrack. The very flashy youngster put up with it because Ozzie was his senior. But the steeplechaser’s taunts, and his racing around in circles, were most definitely wearing thin.

“Dixieland, ha, he could never catch me,” Ozzie boasted.

Dixie, as he was called, snorted, threw up his head. “You say, old man. You’re seventeen years old. I’m faster than you are.”

“Twerp, you were retired from the track because you were slow. I was retired from steeplechasing because I won a lot of money in a lot of special races. The man who raced me thought it was for the best. If I’m on the move, you can’t touch me.”

That did it. Dixie lunged for Ozzie, a 16.2H bay, whereas Dixie was nudging 15.3H and could twist and turn fast like a Porsche. Horses are measured in hands, a hand being four inches. So Ozzie is taller than Dixie. A surprised Ozzie barely got out of the young horse’s way. Twirling, turning, Ozzie thundered down to the pond, flying at about a thirty-degree decline, with Dixie tearing after him. Sneaky moved from his perch to Blue Sky’s special paddock. Next to
Jones, mouths agape, the two animals watched what was turning into one hell of a horserace.

The blind Saddlebred, Blue Sky, chuckled. “Dixie’s not a wimp.”

The little pony, Shamus, listened to the hoofbeats. He could recognize horses by each one’s distinctive rhythm just as he could recognize vehicles by the sound of their tire treads. “Ozzie’s winning,” Shamus declared.

Jones watched. “Yeah, but he had a head start.”

“You’re slowing down, old man,” Dixie shouted, as Ozzie pulled ahead.

Two lengths behind, Dixie reached as far as he could with his neck. Baring his teeth, he made a great show of anger.

Knowing the younger horse was gaining, Ozzie headed straight for the three-board fence, jumping up and over with ease. For him, it was a piece of cake, nothing compared to the fences he’d taken in his glory days.

Dixie was still being taught how to properly jump but didn’t flinch. He soared over that fence in high style.

As they neared the house, Tucker, Tally, and Pewter raced out from inside and onto the back porch, then onto the little patio. The dogs knew better than to chase the horses; plus, the horses were rolling at great speeds.

Hearing all the ruckus, the C.O. also ran out.

“Uh-oh.” Ozzie turned wide, ran straight back, and jumped the fence into the pasture.

Dixie, intent on Ozzie, flew by him in the opposite direction. Halting for a moment, the youngster looked up to behold an unhappy human moving in his direction.

He, too, turned on his haunches, one quick twirl, ran back, and jumped the fence at the same place where he’d jumped out.

Ozzie, head down, grazing, didn’t even look up at Dixie’s entrance.

Dixie was no dummy. He also began grazing as though nothing at all had happened.

The running C.O. had reached the fence. She climbed over without much grace. “What the hell are you all doing?”

Ozzie raised his head and looked at her with his sweetest expression. “Nothing.”

“Dixie!” The C.O. walked right up to Dixie, who raised his head for a scratch.

The bright chestnut appeared surprised. “Who, me?”

“What are you two doing?” the human demanded.

Ozzie returned to the serious business of eating. “Enjoying a fine spring day.”

“You all better behave or I’ll herd you in circles,” Tucker barked from the patio.

Both horses acted as though it were just another spring day. La-di-da, this grass tastes fine.

The C.O. threw up her hands as she walked back to the house. “If I live to be one thousand years old, I will never understand what gets into them!”

Tally trotted along, her little tail straight up. “Mental, they’re mental.” The little girl enjoyed adopting this superior attitude, ignoring her own frequent outbursts of emotion.

“Well, you should know,” Pewter snapped, unable to resist. She’d hopped up on the fencepost to see what would happen when the C.O. reached the horses.

“Smartmouth.” Tally glowered.

Back in the pasture, the two horses exhaled loudly.

Dixie turned to Ozzie. “You still got it, Gramps.”

“Damn right I do.” The bay smiled.

“They stopped,” Blue Sky said, back in the paddock. “Did she scare them?”

“No, they shined her on.” Jones laughed.

Shamus sidled up next to the old horse, “Back in the day, Ozzie did win a lot of money. Hundreds of thousands.”

Jones snorted. “Now, now, squirt, Ozzie gilds the lily.”

“He did win,” said Sneaky. “I think one year he won about a hundred thousand.” The cat then quickly added, so as not to contradict her elder, “But it’s true he overstates his case.”

“Every day. Every single day.” Jones sighed. “Still, Ozzie’s good about knowing his worth and what we horses generate. After all, just last year we generated one hundred two billion dollars for the economy. Of course, that’s with the multiplier effect. If it’s just horses, not feed stores, blacksmiths, it’s thirty-nine billion dollars, but, hey, that’s a lot of money for a species that people predicted would die out with the advent of the motorcar. Horseless carriages? What a mistake!”