The swords of Armageddon

Usually, the daylight hours are uneventful around here. The Man and the Woman vanish for most of the day, securing the Rodent in his corral and leaving Fabio and I with the run of the place (not that Fabio ever takes advantage of this — usually he stays in the same spot from breakfast to dinner, inert lump that he is).

I confess that I don't generally accomplish much during these hours, either. It's a calm and pleasant time of day — the Robot of Death remains dormant, and it seems my more verminous adversaries only come out at night. So I enjoy the quiet, and use the time to regroup. I manage a few well-spaced patrols between generous naps, walk the perimeter once or twice, and always set aside some time to tease the Rodent while he's behind bars. All work and no play, they say...

The other day, however, danger struck when least expected — in broad daylight. As usual, the Rodent sounded the first alarm, but since he does that all the time (for the Refuse Removal Squad, the Invoice Delivery Officer, the Bellringing Bringer of Religious Literature, etc.), I didn't think much of it. But he didn't let up. And there was something particularly urgent to his barkage this time — something earnest and insistent. So I figured I should investigate. (Fabio, of course, didn't even wake up.)

Sure enough, there were unauthorized persons on the premises. They seemed highly organized, with extensive protective gear, an array of specialized tools, and a detailed schematic. A strike team? Hit squad? Demolitions crew? Advanced recon? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

Better out than in, I figured ... I didn't want to get caught inside without an escape route. I moved quickly into the back yard and established a good nest in the protective cover of my preferred bush — tall and thick, with space to move underneath, plenty of tree cover above, and tall fence to my left, right, and rear. If necessary, it would only take me one second to make it over the fence, which is high enough to halt the advance of any non-clawed creature. Deep within this foliage, with my rear protected and escape route established, I was an invisible shadow, yet still enjoyed a full and unobstructed view of the house and yard. Advantage Shmool.

The well-equipped team of specialists made their way into the back yard (more barking from within the house — they were unfazed) and surveyed the area. I remained undetected. As they studied their schematic and unpacked their gear, I briefly considered whether I could take them out before they were able to dig in. Surprise and cunning were on my side, but they were unusually well protected: gloves, boots, aprons, even goggles. And their arsenal was formidable: knives and blades of all sorts, an array of blunt instruments, and some whirling pokey things. And they were very organized. Professionals. Best to not give up the advantage of invisibility under these conditions. I hunkered down.

Suddenly, they all came right at me, wielding their nightmarish scythes and toothy choppers. I clutched the dirt, momentarily weighing my chances of charging directly into their ranks and breaking through their line before they could land an effective blow. But alas, before I could bolt they had my bush surrounded.

I've been hemmed in before, but never by such a concerted effort. Having lost the initiative, I waited for their first move... and for a few moments they just stood there, scrutinizing the bush (I presume they were considering how to best get at me; I still had the advantage of dense cover). They did have me encircled, but in doing so they had stretched their own line, so I now spied weaks spots I could exploit if needed. But I chose to play off their hesitation — they seemed to show some respect for the bush, so if they wanted me, I figured I would make them come in and get me.

Bad gamble. They suddenly started hacking at the bush, slicing away thick branches and burying me in an avalanche of minced foliage. Blinded by the whirlwind of leafy carnage, I bolted for open ground. Here I come, bastards! Top of the world!

Somehow, I made it to the deck unharmed, and quickly checked my six to see how many were giving chase. Apparently the boldness of my escape caught them off guard, because they all stood there, stunned and bug-eyed, and then, almost dismissively, returned their attention to their relentless assault on my bush. As distasteful as this type of scorched-earth policy is to me personally, it did buy me enough time to get back into the house and find better cover.

Though they pressed their assault on both the front and back yards for several hours, the strike team did not infiltrate the house itself. Instead, having completed their mysterious and nefarious mission, they gathered up their deadly instruments and left the area in an orderly retreat (they even bagged up the dismembered leaves and branches, carefully hauling away all signs of the massacre). And when my humans finally returned that evening, the Man seemed completely oblivious to the widespread destruction around him — and to my horror, the Woman seemed pleased!

The next day I carefully surveyed the damage. Half the plant cover in both yards was gone. My favorite bush was now totally naked from the waist down. Useless! I felt exposed and vulnerable out there, which makes me suspect that this was only the first move in a grander scheme — a preemptive defoliation in advance of some major strike? Invasion? Assassination? It does not bode well.

Fortunately, there was one critical flaw in their plan: In their total war on the regional flora, they also wiped out the vineyard that had sprung up in front of the main viewport facing the street. So now, from the comparative safety of my fortress, I have an elevated, unobstructed 180-degree view of my turf. From this new vantage, I could direct mortar fire on a mousehole. Nothing's getting within a mile of me undetected.