The Flying Flea, Callie and Me

by Bill Wallace

  Confused, I shook my head and looked around. “I’m not even close to your tree.”

  “Scat! Get away from here!” she screeched.

  I flipped my tail, spun around, and trotted back to the porch. Callie’s eyes opened when I jumped up beside her on the swing.

  “This is getting ridiculous, Callie,” I complained. “Why is Bird so upset?”

  Callie stretched her neck and looked all around. “You got me, Gray! Why? What’s happening?”

  My tail gave a little jerk. “She pecked me and told me to get away from her tree.”

  Callie raised an eyebrow. “So?”

  “I wasn’t even close to her tree.”

  Callie frowned and looked around the yard once more. She shook her head, put it down on her paws, and closed her eyes. I folded my paws and lay down beside her.

  “I don’t think Bird likes me. I don’t think she believes me, either.”

  “Believes you about what?” Callie asked, without opening her eyes.

  “About not eating birds. I told her that I don’t eat birds, but I don’t think she believes me.”

  Callie peered at me out of one eye.

  “That’s okay. I don’t believe you, either.”

  “But it’s true,” I whimpered.

  Now Callie was staring at me with both eyes.

  “All cats eat birds!” she argued. “We can’t help ourselves. They flutter and wiggle and fluff around. We just have to pounce. We’re cats.”

  I raised my chin off my paws. “I’m a cat, but I do not eat birds.”

  “Yeah, right!” Callie scoffed.

  “Really!” I insisted.

  Callie gave a curious frown. “Why?”

  “When I was little,” I began, “my brother and I sneaked out of the barn where we lived to explore the big world. We had just stepped into the sunlight for the very first time when we saw this bird.

  “He didn’t look at all like Bird. He walked around pecking at the ground. Instead of singing, he flapped his wings and said, ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!’ The way he wiggled his feathers and strutted around made him look real interesting. My brother and I crept up on him. I pounced and tried to grab him with my teeth. Before I could blink, the big bird spun around and came after us. He clunked us on the heads with his wings. He kicked us with the sharp claws on his feet, and he pecked us with his hard beak. He did it so quickly that my brother and I didn’t know what was happening. I had a mouthful of feathers that I swiped from him. His attack scared me so bad, I sucked them halfway down my throat.

  “He chased us, pecked us, and clunked us all the way back to the barn. It hurt! But worst of all, I had those nasty feathers stuck in my throat. I coughed and spit and choked all night long.

  “The next day I still had that awful taste and those fuzzy feathers stuck to the roof of my mouth. Mama said that roosters were mean. She said that she didn’t ever mess with the rooster—and Mama was all grown-up. But whether he was mean or not didn’t matter. I decided right then that I would never try to catch anything that was covered with yucky old feathers.”

  I sat up on my haunches and flipped my tail. “And I never have!”

  Callie closed her eyes again and rested her chin on her paws. “I caught a bird or two, when I was younger. But I’m like you, I never cared too much for the feathers.”

  Suddenly Bird screamed and swooped down from the pecan tree. I flinched when I heard her zoom through the air. I was afraid she might be after me. She wasn’t.

  She flew up and down in the middle of the yard. I couldn’t see what she was after at first.

  So I stood up on the chair and stretched my neck as far as I could. It was the brown hose—I mean, Bullsnake.

  “Why is she after Bullsnake?” I asked.

  One of Callie’s eyes popped open. She frowned, then stood up and stretched her neck like I had done. “Something is going on,” she said. “Bullsnake never bothers anyone. He just wants to be left alone. He’s clear out in the middle of the yard, and she’s acting like she wants to tear him apart.”

  Callie hopped down from the porch. “I’ve got to go check this out.” I followed her.

  Sure enough, here came Bird. She swooped at us, then she swooped at Bullsnake. Then she swooped at us again, screaming as loud as she could each time she dived. I wanted to run back to the porch or hide in the holly bushes. Before I had the chance, Papa Mockingbird came after us, too.

  He zoomed at us while Bird zoomed at Bullsnake. Then Bird pecked at us while Papa pecked at Bullsnake. I never heard so much swishing and screeching in my life. It was enough to make my tail fuzz.

  It felt like the rooster attack when I was little. It filled my heart with terror!

  CHAPTER 4

  Callie scurried down the sidewalk. I stayed hot on her heels, ducking and flinching each time one of the birds made a fly-by. Once under the carport at the end of the sidewalk, we were safe from their attacks. But it didn’t help the noise problem. The pair still kept screeching and screaming their threats at the top of their little bird lungs. To the right of the carport, on the other side of the chain-link fence, I could see the Mama. She was down on one knee, petting Muffy. She frowned when she looked over at us.

  “Wonder what all the fuss is about?” she asked the old dog.

  Callie nudged me with her shoulder.

  “There’s the problem,” she said. “One of the baby birds has fallen from the nest.”

  I frowned, staring where Callie’s nose was pointing.

  “Where? What baby bird?”

  “That little thing. There, beside the woodpile.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “He sure looks weird. He has even less feathers than I thought. The poor thing is almost naked.”

  Callie’s sides jiggled in and out when she laughed. “It’s a baby bird all right.” She chuckled. “They don’t get regular feathers until they’re older.”

  “What are you laughing about?”

  Callie shrugged her fur. “I just never heard anybody say a baby bird is naked.”

  “Well, it is!” I insisted. “And it’s ugly, too. I never saw anything so ugly.”

  I trotted out for a closer look.

  Big mistake.

  When I walked out from under the carport, Bird stabbed me right in the middle of my back. It hurt so bad that I let out a loud meow. Before she could hit me again, I raced back for the safety of the roof.

  The chain-link gate squeaked when Mama opened it. “What in the world is going on out here?” she asked, frowning down at me. “Between the bird squawking and you yowling, it sounds like a battle.”

  Folding her arms, she looked around.

  “Oh, dear! No wonder they’re making such a fuss.” She shot me an angry glance. “I’d be upset, too, if some cat were trying to get my baby.” She scurried off toward the fallen baby bird.

  “I wasn’t trying to get the bird. I was just looking!”

  Mama didn’t hear me. Either that or she just didn’t understand. Very gently she picked up the baby bird and put it in the nest. When she came back, she shook a finger at me and Callie. “You two leave those birds alone.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I protested. “I was just looking!”

  Bird flew to her nest with a last warning. “Stay away from my nest! Leave my babies alone.”

  “I wasn’t doing anything,” I whined. “I was just looking!”

  Now that the excitement was over, Callie curled up in a bed of pine needles to take a nap.

  It was getting dark, so I decided to check if any mice were left in the field.

  As I walked through the pasture I heard the distant sound of thunder. I would have to make a quick catch and be back before the rain came.

  The field was nearly empty. Cut hay lay on the ground in rows. The mice must have moved to the rock hill. I leaped across a small creek to get to the rocky edge where the mice were hiding. I waited quietly, listening—watching for the slightest movement that would show me where th
ey were. I flattened myself out and crawled along the edge of the hill.

  The night seemed to be darker than usual. I heard a low rumble in the sky as I continued my search. Small drops of rain began to hit me on the back. I tried to shake them off. The raindrops got bigger. They were cold and wet. We cats don’t like cold and wet. I scurried to hide under a rock ledge. The mice must have known that the storm was coming.

  Wind shook the trees around me. Leaves fell to the ground as the lightning and thunder grew closer. Rain splashed the dirt, leaving small round dents where the big drops hit. I wanted to be back at the house. I wanted to be sitting safely on the rocking chair. Callie was probably asleep inside. She wouldn’t even hear the wild sounds of the storm.

  A bolt of lightning struck a tree on the hillside. My fur stood on end. I licked my shoulders trying to get it to lie down. Cracking sounds filled the air as the tree broke apart and fell to the ground. I pushed myself farther under the rock. Tucking my tail tight against my body, I knew that I would have to wait until the storm was over. I longed for the safety of the house and the people.

  Small streams of water began running down the hillside. One ran near the rock cliff that I was tucked under. Limbs and twigs covered the ground as the wind gusts shook more of them loose from the trees. I was safe and dry under the cliff.

  When I woke up from a small catnap, I could still hear thunder, but it was not as loud now. I wiggled out toward the edge of the rock overhang. Peering up, I saw that a large branch had fallen onto the cliff that was protecting me. There was stuff everywhere. I had to twist and turn and squeeze and climb, just to get out of the tangled mess that the storm had left.

  The creek was running high with murky water. I had to cross it, but it was deeper and wider than when I had come to the hillside. I followed the stream until I came to a sturdy branch that had fallen across it, making a bridge. Carefully I made my way over the rushing water.

  The rows of hay in Daddy’s field were all wet and soggy. The mice still weren’t anywhere to be seen. I followed the path to the pasture in front of the house. I shook the drops of rain from my back as I listened for the sounds of scurrying mice. The stillness was finally broken by the squeal of a brown field mouse. I wiggled flat against the ground. My whiskers twitched. I glared at the big mouse.

  • • •

  Proudly I carried the trophy to the porch. The Mama would be impressed with a prize this big. I could hardly wait until she found it on the mat. She would know that I was a great mouser when she saw this big one. I finished eating the crunchy part and headed for the rocking chair.

  The usual glare from the yard light was missing. The storm must have knocked it out. The front porch was a mess. My rocking chair was turned over, and puddles of water covered the concrete. Limbs from the pecan tree littered the yard and wet leaves clung to everything. The corner of the porch was the only dry spot I could find, so I curled up for a nap.

  Dreams of mice danced in my head until I heard the door open. The Mama was setting Callie down on the porch. The damage from the storm seemed to surprise Mama as she stepped outside.

  I guess that she didn’t look before she stepped. Her bare foot smushed the big, juicy mouse into the doormat. Suddenly the Mama began squealing and jumping around. “Gray, this is so gross!” She grabbed a broom and came after me.

  I scurried past the front porch. “What’s the matter?” I meowed as I shot out of her reach. “That is my best trophy yet! What did I do?”

  I stopped at the end of the sidewalk. Washing my front paws, I carefully watched the Mama. She glared at me.

  “Gray, why can’t you just eat these nasty things? I don’t want them here where they stink up the place. This is awful!”

  She was standing in the grass wiping off her bare foot. Maybe she should have been watching where she stepped. I always put my trophies on that mat. She should be proud of me. I was protecting the place from these creatures!

  I washed my neck and headed for the woodpile. People were so hard to understand.

  CHAPTER 5

  Five weeks later there was another storm. It was even worse than the last one. This time, when the storm came, I got to go inside the house with Callie. It was lots better than hiding under the ledge on the rock hill.

  Lots of changes had happened since the last storm. The little, naked birds had gotten their feathers. One at a time they had climbed out on the limb where their nest was and practiced flapping their wings. Bird and Papa Mockingbird were so busy feeding their babies, they didn’t bother Callie, me, or even Bullsnake very much.

  One day one of the babies jumped from a limb and tried to fly. Only he didn’t make it very far. He landed in the middle of the yard. Callie and I hid from Papa Mockingbird until the baby managed to fly back up into the tree.

  Lately, every bird but one had been flying. They weren’t as good as Bird and Papa Mockingbird, but they were flying all over the place. A couple were even starting to catch their own food.

  All except one bird.

  I didn’t know what the problem was with that one, but it never left the nest. It didn’t climb out on the limb and flap its wings. It just sat in the pile of twigs looking scared and nervous.

  • • •

  I watched out the front window, but I couldn’t see any of the birds. I was glad when Mama opened the front door to let Callie and me out. I could hardly wait to investigate. Things were always different after a storm.

  The yard was covered with twigs and branches. Needles littered the ground around the tall pine trees. Grasshoppers moved slowly as the sunshine spread through the branches.

  I sat on my haunches and watched the apple tree. None of the birds were around. Papa Mockingbird was no place to be seen, and none of the babies flapped their wings or practiced flying from one tree to the next. The nest looked empty.

  Suddenly I heard something flutter. Bird swooped down from a pine tree. She grabbed one of the grasshoppers, who was sunning itself on a lilac leaf. With a bug in her beak she flew to one of the branches that held her nest. But instead of going to the pile of twigs, she stood far out on the limb.

  She waited there a long time. Finally a gray fuzzy head popped up from inside the nest. “I’m hungry,” it chirped.

  “I’m not bringing you any more food,” Bird mumbled.

  (It was hard to understand her because she had a beak full of grasshopper.)

  “If you want something to eat, you’ll have to come out here and get it!”

  Cautiously the baby Mockingbird hopped to the edge of the nest. Wings out for balance, she jumped to the limb where Bird stood. One step at a time she eased her way toward her mother. But just as she reached out to take the grasshopper, Bird dropped it.

  “Oops,” Bird said. “Fly down and get him. Quick! Fly after him before he gets away.”

  The baby Mockingbird looked down at the ground. Then she turned, hopped sideways along the limb, and disappeared into the nest.

  Bird began to cry.

  My sharp ears pointed forward. I frowned, watching her for a time, then walked to the woodpile. Bird didn’t fly or swoop at me when I got near, so I climbed to the top of the logs. Bird still didn’t come after me.

  “Hey Bird, what’s wrong?”

  She sighed. Her feathers drooped. “Oh, it’s her.” Bird sniffed. “All my other babies learned to fly just like they were supposed to. They have already left the nest. Even Papa Mockingbird has taken off on his journey south for the winter. Very soon I will have to leave, too. But she won’t fly. She won’t even leave the nest.”

  I stretched my neck trying to see inside the pile of twigs. “Is she sick? Maybe she’s hurt. Maybe that’s why she won’t fly.”

  Bird ruffled her feathers.

  “No! She’s strong and healthy. She just won’t try her wings.”

  Bird looked so sad, it made me feel sad, too.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Bird glared down her pointed beak at me. “You’re
a cat! I’ll stay long enough to feed her one more day, then I must leave. If she doesn’t fly away with me, you’ll probably eat her. That’s what cats do.”

  “I don’t eat birds,” I told her, but she didn’t listen. She wiped a tear from under her eye with one of her wing feathers. Then she flew away and began gathering moths and caterpillars to bring back to the nest.

  I felt very sad. After a time on the woodpile I had to find someplace to go. I had to find something to do to take my mind off the sad feeling I had inside.

  My tail flipped when I glanced at the barn. The last time I tried to check there, the big wood doors were closed. I licked my lips. I wondered if there were any mice in the barn.

  The doors were open just a crack. But there was enough space to stick my head in. My whiskers didn’t even touch, so I knew there was plenty of room for the rest of me to fit through. Quiet as could be, I slipped inside. It was dark. I stood by the door a second until my eyes got used to the dim shadows.

  The barn was really big. The walls were made of metal and the roof was metal, too. There were big wooden boards running across the top of the barn to hold the roof up. Other poles and boards came down the sides to hold the walls. There was hay inside, too. I recognized the smell, but it didn’t look like the hay in the field. This hay was all clumped together in big square chunks. I think the House Daddy called them bales. They were piled—one on top of the other—along the sides and at the corners of the barn.

  To my left was an open room. There was no hay inside, not even any pieces scattered about. There was just a big concrete floor, with a black stain right in the middle.

  Another smell made my whiskers wiggle. It was a familiar odor, only I couldn’t quite put my claw on it. Frowning, I looked around. There was something in the corner. My sharp cat eyes narrowed, trying to make it out. Suddenly they flashed wide.

  It was a mouse—but what a mouse! The thing was huge! It looked like a mouse. It smelled like a mouse. But I had never seen such a big mouse. It was chewing on some little yellow chunks of grain. I swished my tail and flattened my ears.