There goes one shrewd varmint

Contrary to all extant meteorological indications, spring indeed approaches. Squirrels have been sighted, frolicking with all that trademark bouncy exuberance that keeps them forever at the bottom of the food chain.

I generally disregard these creatures — nothing but fur over fatty bones — but not so the Big Rodent, who finds them fascinating and maddening. They keep to the relative safety of the fences and trees, which exasperates him to no end. He does manage to put on quite a song and dance for them, though, and I think they secretly enjoy finding new ways to torment him. Basically they're just a bunch of spry buffoons.

Except for one. I have noted the presence of a rather canny bastard out there who seems clever beyond his species. When the Big Rodent is out sniffing around the back yard, this wily one carefully takes up position on the far corner of the fence, and remains completely still. Sometimes the Rodent catches his scent and scans the fence for him, but never can seem to pick him out.

This little gray commando sits there patiently, coiled and ready, and waits for the Big Rodent to assume his feculent arch — the instant the hound's full attention is directed aft, this furball of fire makes his break. He sprints across the fence fast and low... like a real professional.

Usually the Rodent doesn't even notice (that, after all, is the whole point). But every so often, he catches a glimpse of a sudden gray flash zipping along the ivy, and let me tell you, that presents the poor hound with one hell of a conundrum. Unable to interrupt the process occupying his rear quarter, the best he can do is bug his eyes, whimper in panic, and try to hurry things along.

Talk about getting caught with your pants down.

I'm sure this crafty squirrel is a minor legend among his own. It's no big feat to outfox the Rodent, but you have to take these things in context. His name is probably hailed far and wide among the peanut gallery.

Perhaps I will eat him, after all.

From humble beginnings

On this day I pause to commemorate a one-year milestone for these memoirs (I am not one for nostalgic reflection, but I do believe in respectful observation of historical detail). As many a seasoned capo now fortifies his position, and many an up-and-coming scrapper makes his bones on the street, I trust both find themselves bolstered by the wisdom imparted herein.

Permit me if you will the indulgence of reaching deep into my archives to share an ancient tale from a darker, murkier time — a chaotic maelstrom of anarchy and upheaval, in which a young idealist was first set upon the long and bloody path to destiny:

20 JUNE 1995 - Deus ex machina

Trouble. Mother is not in this box. Nor is the rest of my squad. Harris, McDonald, Esteban, Cahill... all missing. It's only me and... oh, for crying out loud. They've put me in here with the moron. The striped pretty-boy with the mind of a pebble. No one trusts this guy. All he's done so far is hog the tit and suck up to management. He's not going to be much help here.

So where are we? I can't smell the hay or the bovine muck anymore — we're in some stinky kind of machine. I sense that we're in motion, and moving fast. The roar of doom is all around us. Can't see out of this cursed box. Where's Cahill when I need him? He's good with boxes. This idiot here with me is pretty lanky — I'll bet he could at least steal a look at where we're heading. Unfortunately, he's just sitting there sucking on a blanket. I'm in real trouble.

Our escort detail consists of three people. The Pleasant Smiling Lady is here with us, peering down into our cardboard prison, cooing at the dunce (she obviously prefers beauty to brains). Can't see into the cockpit, but I detect the voices of the Shrill Blonde and her cagey cohort, Slim Spectacles. NOT to be trusted, that one.

Slim is running this show, of that I'm sure. I caught him eyeballing us last night, just after McDonald and I had finalized our plans for a stealth incursion into the mouse field. All of a sudden there's Slim, looking us over, looking ME over. Come to think of it, the Shrill Blonde was there too, flirting with the moron. Now look at us — boxed up together and hurtling to our doom. So, it all becomes clear: Mr. Spectacles works for the mice.

Hang on now, the roaring of this stygian conveyance has stopped. We've landed in some ghastly place: hard and cold, dark and sooty, awash in the nightmarish grinding of machinery and the foul stench of sulfur. So, the mice have arranged to have me deported to Hell, with ignorance incarnate for my traveling companion.

I won't forget this, Slim. We have unfinished business, and if I ever get out of this box, I will square these scales — with my dying breath, if necessary. Count on it.

Psy ops

With the global sogginess now in a general decline, and the newly imposed feeding procedures falling into an orderliness that approximates routine, I have noted a marked decrease in household pressure. The air is lighter, the rooms seem not so small, and we five may all live through this winter after all.

Time to get back to work.

First order of business: take advantage of the lull to re-establish the chain of command around here. Second: hone skills in preparation for the spring ahead and the influx of creatures both edible and adversarial. Third: enjoy myself a little.

The Man has been largely ineffectual this winter — captivated by the lights flashing from his big box, ingesting his pungent brownish water, or wheezing on an apparently stubborn hairball. Fabio seems content to dutifully and mindlessly follow the routines dictated by this new slime diet — he marches into his feeding chamber like a lobotomized sheep into the abattoir. The Rodent is equally preoccupied with Fabio's victuals, lurking outside the feeding chamber with his nose to the floor like some malnourished weasel.

Which brings us to the Woman. The one who boxed up Fabio for Dr. Fingerer, and then introduced carne mysterioso into the house. The one who tore down the walls by executive decree. The one who put the squirt on me just for limbering up my mandibles on Fabio's rear end.

So. It appears we have our test subject for spring training.

Last night I dusted off an old game — one of my favorites, which I usually reserve for the Man when the Woman is on extended leave— and a time-honored psychological exercise. It's brilliantly simple: just as the subject makes final preparations for sleep, I move slowly and deliberately up the bed, take up position about eight inches from her face, and give her my most stonefaced stare.

The subject usually responds to this with some friendly words and light pats, which I answer with a very subtle, whispering purr. As soon as she stops, and appears ready to turn out the light, I lean in ever so slightly, closing the distance between our heads without breaking eye contact. I remain frozen in this posture, unflinching and silent but for the low rumbling in my gullet.

Patience is the key to this game. You have to hold that stare no matter what. If the subject moves you, you must come right back and re-establish eye contact. And you must be prepared to hold that posture for hours. The results are great fun.

The Woman didn't want to turn off the light. Didn't want to close her eyes. Didn't want to turn away from me. The Man told her to ignore me (a seasoned player!), but she said she was afraid I would bite her if she looked away.

Yep, he sure might, was the Man's reply.

I dare say she didn't sleep too soundly. Shmool's still got it.

Forced desegregation

The walls have come down.

It is nearly a year now since the Woman first expanded the Rodent's daytime domain to include the sleeping chamber and main corridor — effectively ceding him control of half the house (the strategically insignificant half, to be sure... consult my detailed schematic of the fortress to see the division of turf).

This proved at most a minor inconvenience, as I quickly devised a means of infiltrating the Rodent Zone whenever it suited my purpose — a secret the Woman still has not unraveled. The one-way nature of this particular ingress ensured that while I could always get in, the Rodent could never get out.

The situation has now changed, dramatically. It would seem that the Woman has now declared total emancipation for all, regardless of breeding, station, or brains. The walls of containment that preserved both peace and social order have been razed.

For his part, the Rodent seems as confused by this turn of events as I am mortified. He keeps pretty much to his familiar areas and limits his incursions into Shmool Country. Even so, I can already see the lines of demarkation blurring. It won't be long before I will have to factor his presence into every tactical equation. Being an adaptable and intuitive strategist, this is but a modest challenge.

The social implications will be more difficult to gauge. The Rodent's de facto promotion into the ranks of the uncontained signify an implied equality that runs contrary to natural law. It also indicates a move toward a more laissez-faire form of governance on the Woman's part — not an entirely unwelcome turn, though one with far-reaching repercussions that I must contemplate.

Not the least of which will be the regulation of hatch-access privileges.

Uncanny meat

So.

Fabio did eventually return from the mad doctor's lab of horrors, and seemingly unmolested. Still, I maintained a discrete distance and kept a close eye on him for a prudent interval, as I have learned to be wary of appearances, and there's no telling what manner of weird injections he may have received from the macabre Dr. Fingerer.

However, it was the Woman — who incidentally had also been a “guest” of the good doctor — who brought a mystery into the house. She carried with her a large bag, from which she produced a number of small cans. Usually, cans portend delectable fishy meats of great succulence. This time, she scooped from one can a strange mushy meat slurry.

It smelled good. A little too good for my comfort.

She prepared a generous portion of the meatpaste in a dish, and served it to Fabio. Only to Fabio. And... in the bathroom.

Then she added a little of substance to the usual kibble for myself and the Rodent. The dog honked it down in about 2 seconds. I took a long careful look at the bathroom door. My brother was trapped in there with this — thing. The Rodent was already exposed, and trumpeted a deafening belch.

I examined the mystery substance carefully. It resembled no meat I had encountered before. But it smelled damn good. So I sampled a little. OH YES.

It's been six days of this now, and I must make it absolutely clear that at no time have I ingested the full portion of the phantom flesh put before me. That is, I certainly have not taken in as much as the ravenous, crazed Rodent. And there's no telling how much of the stuff the Woman is funneling into my brother behind closed bathroom doors.

Turn your head and hiss

It looks like Fabio's day of reckoning has come. Between his recent ballooning and everything that's been squirting out of him from one end or the other lately, I can't say this comes as much of a surprise.

First thing this morning, the Woman laid out one of those ominous cargo pallets, put him on it, and promptly crated him up for shipping.

This is a sadly familiar ritual for Fabio — no sooner had the bolts of his cage been tightened than he started singing a woeful spiritual.

It can only mean one thing: Fabio's off for another visit to the notorious Dr. Fingerer.

Oh, the humiliations he has in store for him... He'll probably come back shaved, drugged, stitched, lobotomized, peglegged, and wearing the inverted dunce cap.

Assuming the Woman doesn't throw out her back lifting him into the vehicle, that is.

Enough already

This rain situation is wholly unacceptable. I have now withstood 15 days of sog-in-perpetuity (by which time, I have no doubt, the Ark had already floated from its scaffold), and my tolerance has officially reached its threshold.

The ground is now a useless muck; the fore and aft approaches to the fortress are coated in slime. A moat is forming down in the bunker. There is an unpleasant pungence in the air that is not (entirely) the Rodent's doing.

To make matters worse, the new gourmet pellets the Woman recently began distributing have suddenly reverted to their previous, insipid incarnation — it would seem the Woman, marooned within watery barriers and unable to replenish her supply, has been forced to tap auxiliary food stores. As an unfortunate but entirely forseeable result, Fabio has thrice barfed upon the purple throne, which certainly has not elevated his standing in the household.

If an expedition into the puddly muck is necessary in order to secure the appropriate rations and put an end to this regurgithon, then I shall volunteer. I am the only qualified survivalist and orienteer in this sorry lot anyway. All I require is a basic map and a rough bearing on the depot. (No, your so-called “cash” will not be needed — just let them try and prevent me from procuring my necessities.)

Or perhaps, if raise my claws to the heavens and summon all my mighty will, I can drive off these accursed torrents and restore warmth and light to my realm.

After my nap, maybe.