by Carolyn Lis
“What happened between you and Kipling?” I asked.
“Poor chap. I doubt we’ll see him again. He can’t smell like a normal cat. It’s as simple as that. I mean, apparently he can smell a strong scent, like tuna, but it’s hard for him to tell one smell from another. Poor fellow has the abilities of a human. I had my suspicions. He and Archangel hung together on all of the scent drills. Archangel helped cue him to the smells we were following. But without Archangel’s help on the airport test, I doubt he’ll find even one target.”
“Sergeant Barnhard is smart, for a human. I think that’s why she recruited extra help for the test. With the privates escorting us back to the barracks as we finished, none of his mates could coach him on which bags to alert at,” he added.
“Wow! I’ve never liked Kipling, but I almost feel sorry for him now. That’s tough on any cat, let alone the General’s cat,” I said.
“Yes, it’s tough. But it would be dangerous for him and the humans he would be assigned to protect, if he couldn’t sniff out those explosive smells.”
Harley was right on both counts. As unfortunate as it was, Kipling would be useless in the field.
Sergeant Barnhard made the announcement at dinner.
“Congratulations, Fighting Toms! You’ve done well, better than many of the military dogs I’ve worked with in the past. That’s something to be proud of. As you’ve undoubtedly noticed, Kipling is not here. Doc just finished her examination.”
Startled meows went up all around us.
“Don’t worry, he’s okay. He had some difficulty with the test, so we had Doc help us out. She examined him and found he has an olfactory abnormality.”
Another chorus of alarmed and puzzled meows followed her announcement. Sensing the cats’ bewilderment, she continued, “Olfactory abnormality means he can’t smell as well as most other cats. He’s healthy. He’s fine. He just has trouble smelling. There is no shame in that. He worked hard to be a Fighting Tom, and I’m sorry he can’t be with you now. He’s gone back to his home with General McDoodle. I’m sure there is another equally important mission he’ll be able to perform, it’s just that it will not be with the Fighting Toms.” With that, she left us.
As she departed, all the cats meowed back and forth about the unusual turn of events. I saw Archangel off by himself in the corner of the room.
“Archangel, I’m really sorry about Kipling.”
“Thanks, Jerry. I know you other cats didn’t like him much, but he was a good friend once you got past his gruffness. You know, I helped him with the scent drills. He told me he had bad allergies. I believed him. All he wanted was to make the General proud of him.
“Well, like Sergeant Barnhard said, maybe the General will find another mission for him.”
Chapter 17 -- Sabotage
“Da, Da, Da, DaDa, Da, Da Da Da, DaDa, Da” The off-key bugling shook us from our slumbers. Nine bleary-eyed Toms gathered around Owens. “Fighting Toms. This is your morning!” the over-cheerful private gushed as he put down his bugle. “Sarge ordered a tuna breakfast for you all! We’ve got about an hour before the big brass will be here, so eat up and look lively!”
I love tuna, but I was so excited I could barely eat my favorite breakfast. We’d spent the time following our exam practicing at the mock airport terminal. We were as ready as any trained unit could be.
“For goodness sakes, stop pacing, Rex. Think of this as just another scent drill. Look, you’ve been trained on what to do,” Harley said. Sensing that Rex was not the only nervous cat, he continued, addressing all of us.
“Toms, think back to the day you joined the Fighting Toms. Ginger Jam, look at you know. You’ve gone from a plump butterball; to a fit soldier. All of you’ve changed. Changed for the better. White Paws, you couldn’t find a scent that first week and now you have one of the top noses of this bunch. Rex, you were one of the meanest cats I’d met, and know look at all the pals you’ve made. Through all this, you’ve pushed yourselves physically, trained to become the keenest noses in Army, and pulled together as a team. We’re going show those generals what we cats can do! We’re going to show those dogs, what cats can do! Now, lads. WHO ARE WE?”
The cats meowed back a lackluster, “Fighting Toms.”
“Lads, that’s pathetic. AGAIN. WHO ARE WE?”
“FIGHTING TOMS!” this time the cats put some meow into their response.
“Wow! What’s gotten into you?” asked a bewildered Barnhard, as she entered the room to a chorus of Fighting Toms. “Looks like you boys are ready. I can hardly wait to see the looks on the dog handlers’ faces, when MY Toms run circles around their mutts!”
Energized, we followed her out into the courtyard and into the adjoining building.
“Here they are now,” bellowed General McDoodle.
All heads turned towards the door as we entered. I instantly spied the “brass.” Three men and a woman stood next to General McDoodle. One wore a suit and tie; the other three wore their best dress uniforms. Each of the uniformed officers had a chest full of awards. The bright red and gold of their medals against the drab green of their uniform, made them look like festively decorated Christmas trees. Ramrod straight, another line of green-garbed officers stood behind the generals.
Archangel and Rex abruptly stopped right in front of me. Arching backs, hair standing on end, they let loose meows that sounded surprising like low growls.
“Guys, stop it. You’ll get us in trouble with General McDoodle. Behave your….” I didn’t finish the sentence as I, too, caught sight of the problem. Against the back wall stood another line of Army personnel, the dreaded military working dogs and their handlers. Sergeant Sanders stood in the middle, holding the leash of a particularly fierce looking German shepherd.
“Chaps, get a move on it,” meowed Harley. Herding us towards the assembled Army officers.
“Senator Lloyd, Generals, let me introduce you to our Fighting Toms. You all remember 18 months ago, the explosion at Alfred Airbase. Thankfully, no one was injured. Hidden high up on some shelving, the canine unit failed to detect the bomb. Nothing equals the noses of these dogs, but they can’t go everywhere. Now, cats, on the other hand, are skilled at climbing and scrambling into all sorts of places. I thought to myself, ‘What if we could train cats at bomb detention?’ That is what you are going to see today. The Fighting Toms are a company of fit felines able to detect explosives in locations inaccessible to our dogs. Here’s their trainer, Sergeant Barnhard.”
“Thank you, General McDoodle. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fighting Toms demonstration today will show you how these highly trained cats can detect explosives in crowded areas. We’ve planted over twenty explosive devices all around you.” A gasp went up from the gathered dignitaries as she mentioned the staged bombs. “Don’t worry, our bombs are inactive, they can’t explode. I’ll send the cats out in groups of three, and you’ll see how quickly they can detect the hidden explosives.”
“Alright, White Paws, Ginger Jam, Oslo. Go seek!” she commanded.
Ginger Jam and Oslo set off like fur streaks. White Paws rubbed up against Barnhard’s leg for an encouraging rub behind the ears, before he ambled after the other cats. The crowd laughed at his affectionate display.
“You wouldn’t catch a working dog doing that,” muttered one of the dog handlers, sourly.
Ginger Jam impressed the onlookers when he alerted at a suitcase in just two minutes. Oslo found another a few minutes later. White Paws, on the other hand, seemed to be playing with a third, orange bag.
“What in the world is that cat doing?” asked the General standing next to McDoodle.
What in the world, was right. Disregarding all our training, White Paws was rolling up and over the bag. And he was purring!
“Barnhard, is that how you trained your cats to alert?” came a shout from the dog handlers.
Flustered, she rushed over to the cat and pushed White Paws out of the way. Unzipping the case, she pulled out the b
iggest catnip mouse I’d ever seen. Flashing the dog handlers a nasty look, she said, “It seems my colleagues played a practical joke.”
“With your permission, General McDoodle, I’ll continue with the demonstration.”
Following McDoodle’s nod to proceed, she sent out Harley, Rex, and me.
“That’s cat got only three legs,” commented the Senator.
“Yes, sir! You’ll see what this cat can do. Harley is on loan to us from the British Army Air Corps. He served with one of their units in Iraq. That’s how he lost his leg,” said Barnhard.
With all eyes fixed on him, Harley smoothly jumped up onto a table filled with boxes. Without pausing, he alerted at one box wrapped in brown paper. Glancing behind my shoulder, I noted that he had found his “bomb” even faster than GJ.
Maybe it was nerves, but I was having a hard time finding the right scent. Just as my nose picked up the faint odor of explosives from a non-descript suitcase, I heard a loud crash, bark, and hiss.
Rex strayed too close to the working dogs. One nipped at him, causing the bobbed-tail cat to leap up onto a pile of suitcases along the back wall. Rex, understanding that he was safe and out of reach of the hound, began to taunt the dog.
Barnhard put an abrupt end to the cat and dog spat. She scooped Rex off his mountain of luggage and snapped an order for the dog handlers to control their mutts. She then set the cat down near the luggage conveyor belt. Trying to maintain his dignity, Rex continued his search at last redeeming himself by locating a briefcase filled with explosives.
The visiting generals seemed impressed with our performance, especially the ease with which GJ and Harley had located their targets. With just three more Fighting Toms, I felt certain Barnhard and the entire Fighting Tom platoon would be able to chalk this demonstration up as a success. No way could I have foreseen what would happen next.
Meek little Blackberry, our short-legged wonder, had nose to ground almost like a bloodhound. Without looking where he was going, he bumped into the same working dog Rex had previously taunted. It was just too much for the canine. Breaking free from his handler, he set out after Blackberry, chasing the cat towards the assembled VIPs. Poor Blackberry, in fear for his life, did what any other cat would do when chased by a rabid, cat-eater. He climbed. Unfortunately, the only thing in front of him to climb was the General standing next to McDoodle.
Blackberry dug his claws into the general’s trouser leg and scramble on up the right side of the howling man. The dog, not willing to give up his prey so easily, made a flying leap at the man, knocking him to the ground. Blackberry scrambled away, just as two more dogs broke free of their masters.
“Com’on, lads. We’ve got to rescue Blackberry,” shouted Harley.
“I’ve got the mutt on the left,” shouted Oslo as he made a flying leap landing, amazingly, on the dog’s back.
Rex raced underneath the other German shepherd, distracting him.
No one is sure what happened next. I think the handlers let their dogs off-leash, though the handlers denied it later. Whatever the case, the room was filled with eight dogs and nine cats chasing each other. The human bystanders tried to stay out of the way. It took 20 minutes to collect all the cats and dogs, with Doc called in to administer to clawed noses and nipped tails.
Shaking his head and muttering about failed Army experiments, the senator left with his staff. A human doctor patched up the poor man Blackberry had used as a climbing tree; and the other generals shook their heads as they said their farewells to General McDoodle.
Sergeant Barnhard looked deflated. Cat-hating Sergeant Sanders smirked as he took the last dog back to its kennel.
Chapter 18 -- New Beginnings
“Don’t look so glum,” Harley said, as he came over to cheer me up. “Remember my motto: Fall down seven times; get up eight.”
“That’s all very well when we’re coaching Ginger Jam on an obstacle course, but I hardly see how it’s possible to get up again after they’ve disbanded the Fighting Toms. I know Sergeant Sanders planned the whole thing. I’m sure he planted that catnip and I KNOW he let the dogs off leash. All that hard work. For what? No Fighting Toms’ unit. No new army career. I just don’t get how you can be so cheerful about it all,” I snapped back.
The failed demonstration sealed the fate of the Fighting Toms. Humiliated in front of his peers and still smarting from Kipling’s poor showing, General McDoodle canceled the Fighting Toms project. In his words, “…the Army wasn’t yet ready for bomb-sniffing cats.”
“Yes, it’s the end of the Fighting Toms, for now. But you have to snap out of the funk you’re in. These lads leave the Army better than when they entered. Why look at Ginger Jam. He’s lean and mean, and filled with self-confidence. Rex learned how to be part of a team. Why look at you. You’ve turned out to be a good leader and great chap. All these cats finish this tour of duty at the top of their game and with a group of life-long mates.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You go back to your old Army unit. The others are going back to their old homes. Me? I have nowhere to go. My old family can’t take me back. The Army transferred Bill overseas. The Millers can’t take me with them. I have no one and nowhere to go!”
“That’s not what I heard,” the old army cat said mysteriously. “Look lively, here comes Sergeant Barnhard.”
Sure enough, Barnhard entered the barracks and headed in our direction. “There you are, Jerry,” she said, as she stooped down to give Harley a rub between the ears.
“I’ve just got back from talking to a friend of mine. She’s in charge of an experimental project. It’s often difficult to gather information when a unit is out in the field. Many times, we send our troops into heavily populated areas. There might be bad guys there that put our soldiers in danger. Kim’s project involves high tech surveillance devices cats like you can wear. It’s easier to send cats, maybe even dogs, into an area to look it over, before sending in our soldiers. Kim calls it Recon Kitty. She’s at the point where she needs a smart and agile cat. I thought of you. What do you think about that?”
In answer, I rubbed up against her leg and meowed back, “I’m ready for duty.”
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