by Carolyn Lis
“What did you say?” hissed Kipling, now positioned behind the talkative cat.
“Oh, Kipling. I didn’t see you there. I was just saying what an incredible nose old GJ has on him. Why I bet it’s the finest nose in the Fighting Toms. Why I think….” White Paws finally stopped talking when he noticed the leopard cat’s ears laid back against his head.
Barring his teeth in a snarl, Kipling meowed in a frighteningly deep voice, “I thought I just heard you compare me to a garbage dump. Do you have a death wish? No cat talks about me like that and lives to tell about it.”
White Paws gulped and looked around for support. Kipling’s two stooges, Rex and Archangel, had sidled up next to the leopard cat. They too, snarled. Then Kipling began a low, slow circle around the now quiet cat.
Surprisingly, Ginger Jam jumped in between Kipling and White Paws. “Say, guys. Let’s grab lunch. I think Sergeant Barnhard left us all some tuna as a treat,” he said, trying to detract the angry feline.
With a rapid swat of his paw, Kipling knocked Ginger Jam out of the way, sending the cat crashing into a nearby cat tree.
Kipling hunched low, ready to pounce on White Paws when a thundering roar froze us in our tracks. “Stop!” Harley pushed his way past through the growing crowd until he was eyeball to eyeball with Kipling.
“Blimey, have you lost the plot?” the three-legged cat spat out his words. “Kipling, you of all cats know the sure fired way to shut down this whole operation is to have us brawling in the barracks. There will be no fighting. End of story. And you,” he turned to White Paws, “need to learn to keep your fur trap shut!”
An abashed White Paws nodded his head in agreement and rapidly backed away.
Kipling shrugged and headed for the food dish with his two lieutenants in his wake.
Harley was a cat of few meows, but when he did speak, we all listened, including the leopard cat. Kipling may have thought he was the leader of the Fighting Toms, but unofficially Harley commanded the barracks in his own quiet way, breaking up fights before they started.
Chapter 9 -- Night Moves
Our first week of training sped past in a blur. I didn’t think we could be any busier with classroom drills, agility workouts, and courtyard Hide and Find exercises. I was mistaken. I’d just fallen asleep only to be jarred awake by the racket from an out-of-tune bugle.
Da Da DaDa Da! Da Da DaDa Da! Squeak!
“Make it stop!” I meowed, trying to fight the first bit of wakefulness and return to my dream.
The horrible sound kept getting louder until, at last, it stopped on a shrill pitched squeak.
An unfamiliar voice bellowed, “You lazy balls of fur, get off those cat trees. Lineup. We’re going on a night maneuver!” The bellowing came from a giant man. He towered six and a half feet tall, with beefy arms straining the seams of his uniform shirt. Square-shouldered, his thick neck supported a hairless head, making it look like a beach ball on his tree trunk neck. He scowled as he surveyed the room.
“My name is Sergeant Sanders. I have the great misfortune of being assigned to this flea-bitten unit. Private Owens here is going to put some collars on you and we’re going out to see what you cats are made of.” His voice had a gruff quality, as if he gargled gravel.
You couldn’t have matched a more unlikely pair than Private Owens and Sergeant Sanders. Pencil thin, Owens clumsily moved around the room trying to catch each cat to put on collar and leash. I knew this was not going to go well. Cats and leashes just don’t mix. Once the Private had us suited up, he took five leash leads and old Gravel Voice took five others. The two men lead (or should I say dragged) us down the hall and out the door into the cold night.
Poor Blackberry with his extra short legs stumbled and fell. “Com’ on, Blackberry. You’re going to have to walk faster,” I urged him. He fell again only to have cat paws scoop him off the ground and propel him forward.
“Private, load’em into the back of the Humvee. Let’s get a move on it!”
“Okay, cats, jump in,” instructed the young private. He yanked up the leashes of those cats unable to make the leap, half-choking poor Blackberry in the process.
“Ouch! Darn cat,” the private winced as Kipling swatted him with his claws. I felt like giving Kipling a paw bump, but thought better of it.
Have you ever ridden in the back of a Humvee? Well, I’m here to tell you it isn’t fun! A Humvee is a cross between a jeep and a tank. It can travel over all sorts of roadways and even over ground without roads.
The road, if you could call it a road, we traveled tonight had more bumps than Swiss cheese has holes. Each new pothole propelled us up in the air and back down onto each other. After what seemed like an eternity, we jerked to a stop.
“Alright fur balls, out!” barked Gravel Voice with his thick southern accent. “This here’s what we call a night time maneuver. Now you cats are supposed to have that super-duper night vision. We’ll see how good you are. Dang if I understand why the General wants to train stupid fur balls when we have perfectly fine military working dogs. But orders are orders.”
“If he calls us ‘fur balls’ one more time, I’m going to claw his eyes out,” hissed Rex. “My gosh, what’s Picasso doing?”
Turning around to where Rex pointed, I saw Picasso rubbing up against the Sergeant’s legs and purring loudly in an effort to receive a friendly rub. Picasso is one of those cats who thinks humans exists solely to give him attention. I’m not sure he’s ever met a human he didn’t like. Well, maybe tonight. Gravel Voice looked at the friendly cat with disgust and booted poor Picasso out of his way.
“This is the smell you’re to find. Give it a good sniff, boys. Out in these here woods is a cloth soaked in that scent. Now, my dogs could find it in five minutes flat. We’ll see how long it takes you cats. Once you locate it, return here to the parking lot. Private Owens, release the cats!”
On Gravel Voice’s command, Owens went around to each of us detaching collars from leash.
Once freed from the leash, I had this overwhelming urge to turn tail and head home to Bill and Amy. Only I had no idea what direction was home.
Harley must have sensed my feelings, because all of a sudden he appeared next to me. “Steady, Jerry. You don’t want to be thinking about deserting. Make your humans proud. Don’t disappoint them.”
As usual, Harley was right. With a heavy sigh, I turned to the task at hand.
Ginger Jam already had his nose to the ground and began lumbering off into the woods tripping over rocks and tree roots in his way.
“Jerry, you better go with GJ,” suggested Harley. “I don’t think he’s ever been out in the woods. Sure, he might find the scent, but I doubt he’ll be able to find his way back here.”
“Right. Off I go. And thanks,” I meowed back.
“GJ, wait up, will you?” I hollered after the tubby cat as he tripped over another tree root.
“Oh, hi Jerry. I think I’ve got the scent,” Ginger Jam said as I came up alongside him.
“Great, you smell and I’ll follow,” I encouraged.
Off we went. Nose to the ground looking more like bloodhound than cat, the orange cat took us down a small ravine, over an old log, and along a creek bed. I began to enjoy the night outing. The moon shone bright above us and frogs croaked out a nighttime concert.
“I think it’s over here, Jerry,” Ginger Jam said as he pointed a paw towards a small cave in the creek bank.
“Well then, let’s go check it out.”
So excited were we at finding our prize, that we were unaware of the other cat tracking not a target smell but US!
“It’s here! Meow!” He reached a paw into the darkened cave entrance and brought out a pink cloth. We turned to leave and there blocking our path stood the largest cat I’d ever seen in my lifetime.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” it purred in a deep sultry voice, its yellow eyes glowing in the black night.
“J. .J. . .J. . Jerry, I think that’s a b. . b .
.b bobcat,” stammered Ginger Jam.
“Nice of you boys to stop by for dinner,” purred the wild cat.
“We were just leaving,” I said as I nudged Ginger Jam forward.
“What? Leaving so soon? I don’t think so.” The bobcat’s voice hardened as he blocked our exit.
Chapter 10 -- Rex to the Rescue
The bobcat’s body tensed as he drawled, “You, orange cat. Just looking at you makes me hungry. Looks like you’ve been eating well and now I’ll be eating well, too.”
Shaking with fright, GJ stammered, “Jerry, he’s not thinking about eating us, is he?”
“Look. We’re all cats here. Cats always help other cats. Right? We didn’t mean to disturb your home. If you’d just point us in the direction of the road, we’ll be on our way. Appreciate your help and all that,” I could hear myself rambling as I tried once again to push Ginger Jam forward.
“Stay!” thundered the big cat. He slowly stalked forward pushing the orange tabby up against the dirt wall of the den’s entrance.
I gulped. Ginger Jam’s eyes squeezed tightly shut unable to watch the big cat press down on him.
Never again would I see Amy or Bill. Never would I eat another tuna dinner. Never again would I be able to play with the catnip mouse. Never again.
The big cat leaned back on his haunches, ready to spring on Ginger Jam, when it let loose an annoyed hiss. A dozen small pebbles rained down on him. His eyes blazed with anger.
“Hey, Big Boy. Over here,” taunted a familiar voice.
Another shower of pebbles hit the now distracted cat. “What’s wrong, Big Boy. Cat got your tongue?” he heckled.
Rex had positioned himself on the left bank above the den. It was from this vantage point he teased and taunted the wild animal.
“Quick, while Rex has him distracted, let’s get out of here.” GJ and I made a beeline to the right, scampering up the bank as fast as our cat legs would go.
So intently did the bobcat eye Rex, he didn’t even notice we’d gone. The wild cat seemed confused. Rex is an American bobcat. That’s a cat breed, but he does look a lot like the wild bobcat. The wild cat wasn’t sure what to make of his cousin. As we reached the top of the right bank, we glanced back to see Rex bound off, headed full speed towards a nearby fir tree. In one fluid leap, he attached claws to trunk and began scaling the massive tree. The wild cat leapt also, chasing Rex further up the tree. Poor Rex. I was sure he was a goner. But just as the big cat neared the treetop, Rex climbed even higher, bending the fir branches down with his weight. The big cat hesitated, knowing Rex’s branch would not support his weight, too.
Rex inched even further down the bowed branch, tensed all his muscles, and jumped towards another tree twenty feet away. Rex looked like a skydiver, as he propelled downwards towards the smaller tree.
We heard, rather than saw, Rex hit the tree with its branches rustling and snapping as he tried to gain a hold to stop his descent. Then all was silent.
“Over here,” a familiar cat’s voice snarled from a tangle of dense shrubs. “Quick, stop gawking at Rex. He’s fine. See!” Kipling hissed, his paw pointing towards the fir tree just as Rex scampered down its trunk and bolted into the woods. “We need to get out of here. Glad to see you still have the rag.”
Sure enough, GJ held the pink cloth between clenched teeth. In the dense undergrowth, Kipling and Archangel waited for us. “No time to lose. Let’s get out of here. Rex will meet up with us at the roadway,” ordered Kipling.
“Kipling, shouldn’t we wait for Rex,” I asked, not wanting the big cat to dine on our rescuer.
“No worries. Rex can out climb and run that bobcat any day. He’ll be fine,” retorted Kipling as he moved us forward.
Sure enough, just before we reached the roadway, Rex reappeared.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Rex. I was sure Ginger Jam and I were goners,” I shuddered thinking about the bobcat making a meal out of us.
“I’ve never ever been so scared. Thanks, Rex,” added Ginger Jam.
Rex looked a little embarrassed by the outpouring of gratitude. “No worries, boys. Not a big deal.”
“Well, there is a way to repay us,” began Kipling. “I’ll just take that cloth.” Kipling nimbly yanked the cloth from Ginger Jam and pranced out of the woods and towards the parked Humvee.
Ginger Jam and I stood and stared, slack-jawed. Kipling marched right up to Gravel Voice and deposited the cloth at his feet.
“Well look here. It’s the General’s cat, Kipling. I should have known you’d show those other cats how it’s done. Private Owens, herd up the cats and let’s get home.” Gravel Voice continued to heap praise and cat treats on Kipling who strutted around as if he’d just conquered the world. Private Owens, for his part, looked pained at the prospect of putting leashes on ten cats all scattered around the parking lot.
“Rex, are you just going to stand there and let Kipling take all the glory,” I snapped. “If anyone deserves the praise, it’s you and Ginger Jam. I can’t believe that old glory hound is hogging the spotlight like that. It makes me hissing mad,” I could barely spit out the words.
Rex just shrugged his shoulders and headed towards the Humvee where Private Owens vainly tried to catch one cat after another. Just as Owens reached for a cat, it would dive under the Humvee or dash out of the flailing human’s grasp. Sweat beaded from the private’s forehead as he made a mad dive for Blackberry.
“Haven’t you got those dang cats loaded yet,” barked old Gravel Voice.
“Sarge, I’m trying!” Owens whined.
“Okay, boys. Stop playing cat and mouse with the poor private. I want to get back home to bed. Line up and let’s get out of here,” commanded Harley.
Harley marched right up to Owens and allowed the human to attach leash to collar. The other cats followed and we all bumped and jostled our way back home.
Chapter 11 -- The Wall
The next morning, General McDoodle made a personal visit to our barracks, lecturing us on the amazing feats of his star trainee. “Cats, just follow Kipling’s example, and we’ll make fine Army recruits out of you all. It’s more than muscle we’re after. You need to be smart and agile just like Kipling. I know the rest of you can do it!”
The General’s speech didn’t boost my spirits one little bit. The General even brought Kipling a can of tuna! If only the General knew what a mean-spirited, cunning, and nasty cat Kipling truly was.
“Stop fuming, Jerry,” Harley meowed. “It takes teamwork to succeed in our job. Cats like Kipling just don’t understand that. It will be his undoing. You can only steal glory for so long before you’re found out.”
I suppose Harley was right. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be like Kipling anyway. But it rankled me that the humans thought Kipling was some sort of super cat.
General McDoodle continued talking, “. . . cats, you have proven yourself in the classroom. You’ve done Sergeant Barnhard proud. She’ll continue your classroom drills in the afternoon. Starting today, we’re adding endurance and physical fitness training to your routine. I want to introduce your new the drill sergeant. He’s going to transform you from housecats to lean, mean, fighting machines. All you cats will become the top of your breed. Drill Sergeant Sanders, take charge.”
Wouldn’t you know? Our new drill sergeant was none other than Gravel Voice.
Gravel Voice thanked General as he marched to the front of the room. He talked about what a fine set of trainees we were and what an honor it was to serve as our drill instructor. It went on like that until General McDoodle left the room and then a switch tripped transforming nice Sergeant Sanders into mean Sergeant Sanders.
“Owens, get those dang cats lined up and ready to PT!” he barked. Private Owens must have been in the back of the room the whole time. The sergeant’s booming voice brought the young private scampering forward.
“Jerry, what’s PT?” Ginger Jam meowed.
“Something you’ve never
done,” sneered Kipling. “PT is physical training, you fool.”
“Cats, line up over by the door. Please,” Owens pleaded with us.
“Owens, how many times do I have to tell you? You’ve got to take charge. Watch how it’s done,” said an annoyed Sanders.
“Cats. At the door. Now!” Sanders thundered, his voice shaking the room.
Stunned, we did what he commanded, lined up, and followed him out the door, down the hall, and out to the courtyard.
It took a few minutes to adjust to the bright sun. I blinked once, then twice. I didn’t recognize our patio. Gone was the sand box. Gone were the cat toys. All replaced by what looked like a strange assembly line. Mousetraps lay scattered around the ground to the left. On the opposite end, a 12-foot climbing wall rose towards the sky. Between the mousetraps and wall, stretched a tunnel and a swimming pool. The tunnel, made from hoops covered in canvas, didn’t look too scary. The swimming pool was another story. Steps led up to the portable pool’s edge. There, a wood beam spanned the ten-foot distance across to the other side.
“This here is what we call an obstacle course,” barked Sergeant Sanders. “If you think you’re going to be a Fighting’ Tom, you’re going to have to pass this course. Personally, I think you’ve got it too easy. My dumbest dog could run this course. Of course, my dumbest dog could run circles around you fur balls.” He spat out the words, looking with disgust at our assembled group. “Private Owens, line up the recruits.”
Poor Owens looked helplessly at us, not sure where to begin. Kipling, more to show off than help, marched over to the course starting line.
“Should’ve known you’d volunteer, Kipling. You would have made a great dog,” Sanders praised. “Alright, ready, go!”
On the word go, Kipling threaded his way through the mousetraps, easily reaching the tunnel without a misstep. He went through the tunnel and up onto the beam stretched over the pool. For one tense moment he lost his balance and it looked like he’d be swimming, but somehow he managed to stay out of the water. Most impressively, he climbed the barrier easily, as he hurdled from one little ledge to another. On top the wall, he turned to give the rest of us a smirk and jumped down onto the trampoline on the other side.
