The Adventures of Button

by M. D. Richard W. Leech

  Buttons did not include the cat among her friends. In a short time, everyone else would call her Mommy Kitty, for obvious reasons. She was always pregnant. Buttons didn’t care about the situation at all. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe just a dog-versus-cat kind—of thing. She didn’t know, and was always too busy to figure it out. Nonetheless, the black Scottie clearly remembered the first day. Too many birds and then the cat.

  Crispin Chatterbox inquisitively cocked his head to one side for about the tenth time in the last thirty seconds, thinking to himself, “Well, here we go again.”

  Crispin was like all grackles—nosy, noisy, and generally disliked. He was of less-than-normal size and always on the move. He impatiently hopped from one foot to the other, fretfully waiting for the action below to come to some fruition.

  The object of his dancing stare lay roughly five and one half feet below him. A remarkable object it was, perched as it was on the rounded rear end of a small black dog furiously digging in the soft, red dirt of a beautifully organized garden.

  Like a black, twisted worm, it bounced to and fro, carving crazy pirouettes in the air as dirt flew from between the dog’s hind legs. Small woofing noises were emitted at regular intervals, puffing out in jets of dirt which hung in the air about the rapidly enlarging hole.

  A haughty crackling comment at Crispin’s side abruptly interrupted the grackle’s watchfulness and almost caused him to almost stop his dance in midair.

  “I see that Button Benttail is at it again. Really, I don’t see what is so interesting about the silly activities of a mud-covered ground mutt. After all, it’s only bound to get her into more trouble.”

  Crispin had immediately jerked around to face his unwelcome guest, who was, as expected, none other than that miserable, but very large, J. Wellington Blackbird. JW (as he insisted on being addressed) was of southern descent, born on a large plantation situated on a tributary of the mighty Mississippi River, and ready, willing and able, as they say, to enlarge on any topic whether his input was requested or not. Blackie (as most birds called him behind his back) lifted his left wing and preened himself, stylishly lifting one foot as he did so. Given to unwelcome snide comments about almost everything he surveyed, Blackie raised one eyebrow and looked down his nose at Crispin.

  “Well, my little friend,” and he curled his bill just the slightest, “what you see in the Benttail, I’ll never know.”

  Crispin’s small voice cracked as he angrily rose to his friend’s defense. Quite literally because it was necessary for Crispin to fan his wings and repeatedly hop into the air to be at eyelevel with Blackie.

  “You don’t understand. What Buttons is doing is very important.”

  Of course, Crispin had no idea what Buttons was doing, or why, or for what purpose. But being a true friend, it made no difference. All that was important was that if Button wanted to do it, then it was fine with Crispin. No friend to the nasty Blackie, Crispin would have come to Buttons’s defense no matter what.

  Blackie bent down, twisting his head to fix Crispin with one lofty and elevated eyebrow above a startlingly black eye.

  “Well,” he snorted.

  Crispin fanned his wings even more rapidly. How he hated that arrogant snort.

  “Well,” came the snort again. “Just what is she doing?”

  Blackie raised one claw and carefully scratched his beak, only partially hiding his smile which twisted and curled his lip. This, Blackie knew, would agitate Crispin even more.

  The deliberate and silent gibe went home, as Blackie had anticipated. Crispin hopped backwards on the fence, momentarily seeking an avenue of escape, then straightened. He wouldn’t give Blackie the satisfaction of flying away. And, he certainly wouldn’t leave his friend who maintained her vigorous assault on the dirt.

  “She . . . she was going to . . .” He didn’t finish his explanation for another voice broke in.

  “Hey, Cris.” It was the furry voice of Bonnie Cottontail coming from beneath a small and heavily laden rose bush. “How long is she going to take?”

  There was hardly a pause, and another voice added, “And who’s that gosh-awful big, black bird?”

  Blackie preened himself once again, and ever so slightly bent downward to gaze upon the small rabbits who sat lazily, scratching themselves in the early morning sun. He smiled to himself, the warmth of their awe slowly spreading through his body.

  “Hurumph, well-spoken for small bunnies,” he thought to himself.

  Another voice broke in. High-pitched and squeaky, it was whispered in a thunderous undertone to the small bunnies gathered about him. “Nuts, he ain’t all that big, less’n you take in the big words, the big voice, and the big opinion he has of himself. I’ve seen grackles almost that size.”

  Now, it was JW’s turn to hop and fume in midair. Glaring at the rat-tailed squirrel, he fumed, “Don’t you think it’s a bit early for the runtiest runt of squirrels to be out of his bed, my tiniest friend, Ignatius?”

  “Well, you know more about beds than most of us, seeing as how you rob ’em often enough.” Iggy, as he preferred to be called, was always ready for a good fight, so long as it didn’t come to any rough stuff. After all, he really wasn’t built for it, being rather stringy and small.

  JW was about to launch another verbal thrust when he was interrupted. Several things happened at the same time. Crispin took quickly to the air, the bunny rabbits turned tail and disappeared, as did Iggy who headed for the nearest tree, and JW, turning, was face to face with a long, lean cat whose tail was slowly whipping back and forth. The cat lay crouched scant inches from JW.

  The large blackbird knew he had been negligent, but still he squawked, “Drat, you, Crispin, it’s your fault. Your fault, you know.” JW knew very well it was his own fault. No bird allowed any cat within several feet, for as fast as he could take to the air, the cat would be upon him before he could reach safety. JW began to inch backwards, but came up against the corner fence post which served only to further hinder any possible escape. The cat smoothly followed, licking its thin lips.

  JW was large, but the cat was within a foot now, and was quite obviously enjoying itself. Mealtime was at hand, and this particular morsel would go down with even greater satisfaction than most. JW’s snide comments had often been directed at the cat and now was payoff time.

  The cat’s belly touched the top rail of the fence in anticipation of its lethal leap, when Buttons burst from her hole on the outside of the fence. She had been watching the action as she made the hole just big enough for her to escape the fenced yard. As she rose from the hole, she barked furiously, leaping up against the fence, her stout, but small, body causing the fence to sway ever so slightly.

  The sound of her voice and the reverberations of the fence had hardly reached JW and the cat when JW launched himself into the air. The sudden interruption broke the cat’s concentration only for a tiny fraction of a second, but it had made the difference. The large blackbird was several feet from the fence and was ascending rapidly when the cat made a futile leap, clutching at the bird and grabbing a few large and long black tail feathers. The cat landed heavily in the dust of the Great Field just in front of the small dog.

  Buttons did what dogs have done for eons; she attacked, barking even more furiously than before, racing toward the cat whose back immediately arched, hair on end. Spitting furiously, the cat easily evaded the small dog’s rush, and with a quick leap over the dog, reached the base of the fence. With one swift movement, she leaped to the top where she sat, gazing down with anger and frustration.

  Buttons stopped her commotion as JW circled above her. Although still haughty, his voice was clearly chagrined at his narrow escape. He curtly thanked the small dog, while at the same time blaming her and Iggy for his narrow escape, and then headed for the tall maples some distance from the fence and the immediate environs of cat and dog.

  Buttons sat at the bottom of the fence, contemplating the cat. She had
never really met one before, and this one had angered her. The cat hissed as Buttons moved back and forth. “You had no right to interfere.” The cat’s voice was soft and quiet, but the words were angry and tightly controlled.

  Buttons looked upward, somewhat startled by the cat’s comment. Sitting, she asked, “And why not? You would have eaten poor old JW if I hadn’t.”

  As the cat answered, Buttons cocked her head to one side. This cat was a female, just like her, and was a typical tabby cat, black and brown stripes mingling with patches of brown.

  The hissing voice of the cat came once again. “You will leave me and mine alone. Do you understand, little dog? Or else!”

  “Or else what, cat?” queried Buttons. “This is not your yard and just who do you belong to? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “It’s none of your business, dog. Go, and leave me alone.” The cat sat and began washing a forepaw, her tail still lashing back and forth in poorly disguised anger.

  Buttons snorted. “First, cat,” and here she emphasized the last word, “you have no business here. Secondly, I’m not afraid of you, and you will stay out of my yard. Thirdly, you will leave my friends alone. Go elsewhere, if you must hunt, but get out of my sight.”

  Buttons was beginning to get angry as young pups will. She began to hop up and down on her short, stout legs, growling deeply in her throat, daring the cat to do something. Which is precisely what the cat did, as cats will.

  She leaped to the ground, landing just behind Buttons, who spun on her tail. But it was too late, and Buttons was too slow, which she learned to her woe. The feline raked her claws across Buttons’s round rump, and then as Buttons whirled again, whipped her claws across a very sensitive nose.

  Buttons howled in pain as the cat spat, yowling in return as her anger at the dog rose. Buttons was also becoming more and more enraged and attacked fiercely, but to little avail. She was getting badly mauled when respite arrived in the figure of her closest friend, Sally.

  Sally sailed into the fight with sheer joy, bugling as she did so. The cat, who was no taller than Buttons, but longer, was really not all that big. In fact, the cat was downright thin, her sides sunken in, with little evidence of fat anywhere. The cat had no chance against the two fierce little fighters. For, although they were young, they had no intention of giving in. All three rolled in the dirt, giving as good as they got. Finally, seeing her opportunity, the cat broke free and with one leap made it to the top of the fence. She stood there for a moment, glaring at the two dogs, as she was now puffing from the exertion. Then, with a graceful twist, the cat disappeared from sight, leaving the two dogs wondering how she could do it.

  Both Sally and Buttons sat abruptly, taking measure of their many scratches. Buttons in particular had taken a real beating and she glared at Sally, daring her to say something. Sally did, of course, but not what Buttons had anticipated.

  Instead of some dumb comment about the many scratch marks Buttons’s nose bore, Sally said in a speculative voice, “Boy, did she disappear fast. I wonder where she lives. It must be close by, though I don’t remember meeting her before.”

  Buttons muttered as much to herself as to Sally, “You know, I think maybe you’re right. She didn’t really want to leave, but . . .” Here, Buttons grinned hugely, “We didn’t give her much choice, did we? Sure showed her. And, if I find her, I’m really going to give it to her. And I will find her, watch and see.”

  Sally looked long at her friend. She knew Buttons, and she knew Buttons would not give up until she had evened the score. But, for some reason, it didn’t seem right. Sally was as young as Buttons was, and being a beagle, liked to hunt. But this did not set right. She didn’t say so though because she had received her share of scratches also.

  They spent the remainder of the morning chasing Iggy from tree to tree, a game he enjoyed immensely, causing a great deal of racket, disturbing the larger squirrels, and, of course, setting the many birds into flight time and again. Finally, they tired and rested within the shade of one of the larger elms, before finally calling the day quits and returning to their respective homes, all agreeing beforehand to meet the next day.

  For the next several days, Buttons was clearly preoccupied and did not participate in their games with the same unrestrained enthusiasm. As the days passed by, Buttons played less and less until she simply was not to be found at all.

  Buttons was indeed almost invisible. She lay beneath small bushes, or deep within the tall reeds which surrounded a small garden pond, only the tips of black ears being visible. Always vigilant, her small brown eyes missed nothing that moved. She simply waited, hour after hour after hour. Sooner or later her, adversary would appear, and, then, only then, would the terrier act.

  The target of her watchfulness would appear occasionally at sunset or sunrise. Rarely during the day. At night, Buttons would be inside her boy’s home, thus preventing watching round-the-clock. It simply aggravated the situation because Buttons would go to bed resentfully, sleep restlessly next to her boy, and rise angrily, rushing to the door to be let out as soon as possible.

  But she came. Mommy Kitty would make her appearance sooner or later. Then, Buttons attacked, barking furiously as she raced to overtake the cat. Each time, the cat rapidly disappeared over the fence. But sooner or later, she would reappear and once again be attacked by the small terrier.

  The cat appeared reluctant to stand and fight. She would stand briefly, glaring at Buttons, but would then launch herself over the fence.

  After that event, the cat was to be seen crossing the Great Field at different times of the day. She was usually in the company of a tomcat, much to the glee of many creatures. As one large squirrel put it, “Humpphh! More often pregnant than not.” Then the squirrel would turn and begin to berate her many offsprings and the male who sat at her side.

  Day after day, the same scene would be played out. Buttons angrily attacking and Mommy Kitty backing away, her sides heaving with her inner anger and increasing frustration.

  Buttons would grin wickedly after each encounter. Mommy Kitty was wearing down. It could be seen in her thin sides, the drooping belly, and the fear growing in the cat’s eyes. She’d be sorry for attacking Buttons and Sally that long-ago day. Yes, Buttons’s persistence was paying off.

  She told her best friends, Sally and Iggy, nothing. Knowing the cat’s habits, the small terrier could go back to her play during the day, becoming increasingly vigilant as night approached.

  Iggy finally broached the issue because his curiosity was as long as his patience was short.

  Sally silently agreed with him when he said, “Hey, Buttons, what’s going on? You’ve been up to something, haven’t you? I can tell.”

  Sally joined in to urge Buttons to tell them. Buttons heaved a deep breath, looked closely at her two best friends, and then broke down and told them.

  “Look,” she said, “that cat that we jumped the other day? Well, I think I know where she lives. And,” here she looked meaningfully at them, “it’s not in one of the homes.”

  “Oh, nuts,” said Iggy in disgust. “All she is, is some old stray that will wreak havoc around here for a while and then leave as they always do. What’s so great about that?”

  Buttons shook her head vehemently. “No, you don’t have the picture. She’s got a hole under the old part of the fence with our neighbor. You know, the old couple that we rarely see outside.”

  Sally was watching Buttons with great interest. Clearly, she had a plan of action in mind, and it undoubtedly meant trouble for someone. Probably all of them. “Just what do you have in mind, Buttons?”

  Buttons puffed up her small, narrow chest. “I’m going to wait until I see her leave, and then I’m going to dig her hole into nothing. She’ll have to leave, whether she likes it or not. So, there. What do you think of that?”

  There was a wicked look of determination in her eyes, and neither Iggy nor Sally said anything. They simply followed behind as Buttons turned and he
aded for the area in question. Sally was concerned, nonetheless. This was not typical of Buttons, who never held a grudge. She was one to forgive and forget. She had never harmed anyone. But this was different. Her anger had taken on a life of its own. Sally didn’t like it, but as a good friend will in such situations, she vowed to stay with Buttons. Maybe Sally could help. How, she didn’t know; but she would try, come what may.

  The three entered the garden quietly, and then lay hidden in the shade of a very large bush, which hid them from anyone in the garden. Twice a bird landed just in front of them to seek worms without being aware of the three. Finally, Iggy nudged Sally, and indicated with a twitch of his nose the direction of some movement in the thick of flowering plants. Thick ivy covered the ground between plants. The three of them watched with great anticipation as the cat emerged from the thickest area of ivy, which partially climbed the rotting fence. Looking around and seeing nothing, a lithe and sinuous leap took the cat to the top of the fence and then over.

  The yard of the old couple next door sloped from front to back such that the old fence sat at least two feet above Buttons’s yard. Thus, the small, black terrier could hide to her heart’s content. She actually had a large hole in the side hill where the ground rose most steeply.

  Buttons stopped in midstride as she rose. Sally was rising also, and bumped into her friend. “Heh, what gives?”

  Buttons dropped her head in shame as she recalled the appearance of garden earlier in the spring. She turned and looked at Sally. “What a ninny I’ve been. I dug a good-sized hole in the side of that bank and then promptly forgot it. It’s covered by the ivy hanging down the fence. What a ninny I’ve been.”

  Sally just grinned, making Buttons even more frustrated.

  With the cat’s disappearance, Buttons burst from the bush, rushing toward the spot just vacated by the cat. It took only moments for the keen noses of Sally and Buttons to locate the entrance to the cat’s den. It was carefully hidden by the ivy, as the two anticipated, and lay at the foot of the old post. A partially rotten slat covered the top.