Squirrels-Part Two

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said the squirrel, with this sort of street tough accent. Not like the squirrels back in Michigan, who were simple and playful, almost to a fault. “Tail on fire?”

“You speak cat!” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Enough. Ya learn things on the street,” he said, with a bit of a lisp through those prominent front teeth. “Welcome to the neighborhood, kid.

We both leaned, nearly touching noses as we took a quick sniff. Of course, there was really no telling what sort of character this really was until I could get around and sniff that butt. Seeing as that didn’t seem likely to happen any time soon I took what I could get.

“Kid?” I complained. “Why is everyone calling me kid?”

“Nice tail,” he said. I did sort of a tail chasing turn to see just what he was talking about. I realized almost instantly, even before he laughed a chirping little laugh. I quickly felt dumb at falling for the line.

“That’s why I called you kid. A little on the gullible side. That will get you in trouble around here.”

I wanted to jump on that little rodent in the worst way, chase him across the yard or up a tree. Indeed, this was an odd and unexpected moment for both of us. He had a dangerous look in his round black eyes. He rubbed his tiny clawed hands together. His whiskers twitched suspiciously. On the branch of the big Maple behind him three of his chubby little pals looked on. I glanced back at Smudge, curled up and sleeping in the window. I had my doubts she would come to my aid if I got in a tussle with this rabble.

I decided a bit of a show of force was in order. After all, I was a cat, a hunter not some sad little scavenger like this lout. Not that there wasn’t room for respect. I’d seen them flipping from tree branch to tree branch. These guys were gutsy, and maybe even crazy. These were prison yard rules, I realized, and I wasn’t about to be anybody’s punk!

“Gullible? Listen here, Acorn boy…”

He came forward, bringing his pointy little face close to mine, near enough I could smell tree bark on his w arm breath. His voice was low and deadly serious. I was way over my head here, and I knew it was.

“Trying to do you a solid here, son.”

“Don't do me any favors,” I replied, fighting to hold my crumbling confidence. “Techically you understand that you fall under the category of prey, and lately I’m tired of eating cold hard food.”

He laughed, his round eyes narrowing dangerously. “Listen here, tough guy. Maybe I got rabies, maybe I don’t. Maybe my palls come down here and even the score. You, you live in your nice warm house, with humans that bring you food. Try digging in the trash, or competing against this lot!” he motioned to the others lined up on a branch. “You’re safe from crows, don’t have to scrap with rats, run on power lines…ever face down a ticked-off raccoon? Naw, didn’t think so.”

He walked around me, giving me a good once over. I kept a wary, and nervous, eye on him

“So you’re the new cat, eh?” It was more of an observation than a question.

“So there was another cat!” I exclaimed. I turned too quickly. The blink of an eye he was up on a rusting yellow birdbath, a paw resting on a metallic hummingbird at the back of the bath.

“Big old female. Didn’t like her much, not like the other one. What’s her name?”

“Smudge?”

“Right,” he said. “The other one was trouble. She didn’t play around, not like Smudge.” He shook his head. “Dangerous that one.”

I came around, but my paws up on the bath. The squirrel backed away a bit, keeping a safe distance between us.

“So what happened to her?”

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I asked. He hoped down and scampered half way across the leaf-strewn patio. He glanced back over one shoulder and shrugged.

“Same difference.”