Chapter 13
Chip
Like I said, we need to assemble an army, Fish declares as we trot along the perimeter of the park, her black-and-white tail stabbing the air like a tiny flag of feline doom. A tactical force with specialized rodent elimination skills.
I bounce beside her, my orange fluff floofing in the wind. Right! An army! But do armies get snacks? Because I feel like armies should definitely get snacks. You can’t conquer mice on an empty stomach—that’s just poor strategic planning.
Focus, Orange One, Fish sighs like she’s carrying the weight of the world and also me, which, by the way, is rude. We’re about to recruit the finest feline operatives in all of Maine. This requires dignity, authority, and—
OOOOH! Is that a hot dog wrapper? I lurch sideways like a furry shopping cart with a busted wheel. My nose is twitching. It smells like hope and pickles. The possibility of mustard residue makes my whiskers dance with anticipation.
CHIP! Fish yowls loud enough to make a car alarm go off three counties over and shatter glass. And trust me, a few more broken windows is the last thing Josie needs around here. We are on a MISSION! You cannot stop to investigate every piece of garbage you encounter!
I wasn’t investigating, I was sniffing! And you and I both know it might have mustard residue, I protest, reluctantly abandoning my treasure hunt. Mustard is very important for morale. Napoleon probably ate mustard.
Napoleon was hooman, you furry disaster. And by the way, he LOST. You can thank my hooman’s husband Jasper for relaying that little tidbit. He always watches the boringest things on TV. As soon as he gets home from work, he steals the remote from Bizzy.
Well, maybe he would have WON if he’d had better snacks, I counter with logic that makes perfect sense to me—and probably Jasper, too.
You’re quoting history incorrectly and disrespecting mustard.
Stay with me, Lieutenant Fluff-for-Brains.
Fish stops walking and sits down with all the drama of a cute kitty who’s reached the end of her rope.
Listen carefully. We need these stray cats to respect us.
We need them to see us as leaders, as generals in the coming war against rodent-kind.
We cannot accomplish this if you’re sniffing garbage like a common. .. like a...
Like a dog? I suggest helpfully.
EXACTLY! Fish’s whiskers twitch with indignation.
I mean, some of my best friends are dogs. Not exactly the truth, but a cat’s got to reach to be right sometimes.
This isn’t a social mixer, Chip! We must project authority! Competence! Feline superiority!
I nod so hard my ears actually wobble. Got it. No garbage sniffing during recruitment. What about after recruitment? Can I sniff garbage then?
We’ll discuss your garbage privileges later. She lifts her tail at me. Right now, focus.
She motions with her tail toward a picnic table where a gray tabby lounges like a mafia boss in retirement beneath a picnic table, eyeing us with the kind of suspicion that suggests he’s seen some things and survived to tell the tale.
Do you see that tabby over there? she mewls in that direction. I think we should call him Whiskerface. I can tell he’s seen things. Done things. We need him.
I grunt at the fat cat. He looks like he could take down an opossum with one eye closed.
He’s perfect, she mewls. Follow my lead. And try not to bounce.
I attempt to match Fish’s sleek, intimidating stride, but let’s be honest—I move like a beach ball in a wind tunnel. Still, I puff out my chest and channel my inner authority while trying my hardest not to look like an orange bowling ball.
Greetings, fellow feline, Fish begins with formal authority. I am Fish, and this is my associate, Chip. We come bearing an opportunity for employment.
Whiskerface eyes us like we’re offering expired tuna.
You two look awfully clean for alley cats. His voice carries a rough edge as if he’s had to fight for every meal. What’s the catch?
No catch! I interject, unable to contain my excitement. Just mice! And rats! And more mice! Possibly cheese! Potentially funnel cake! It’s like winning the lottery, but with more rodents!
Fish shoots me a look that could freeze a flame, but I’m too excited to care.
What my enthusiastic colleague means, Fish mewls through gritted teeth, is that Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland is experiencing a rodent uprising. We’re assembling a specialized feline unit. Room, board, snacks, unlimited vermin—are you in or are you out?
Whiskerface lifts one mangled ear. Define unlimited.
Popcorn carts, churro fallout zones, the Great Turkey Leg Emporium— I start ticking off with my claws.
Fine, he growls. But if anyone puts a sweater on me, I walk.
Noted, Fish says. But you need to pull your weight.
We’ve got an infestation of epic proportions, Fish confirms while clawing at the air.
We’re talking mice, rats, possibly some kind of super rodent that I’m not entirely sure is native to this planet.
The food court alone could keep a small army of cats busy for months.
What’s the hierarchy? Whiskerface asks, because apparently, even stray cats understand office politics.
I am the supreme commander, Fish announces without hesitation. Chip here is my lieutenant—
I’m a lieutenant? I practically bounce with excitement. Do I get a badge? Can it be bacon-shaped?
—and we’re looking for capable soldiers to form the Feline Extermination Force. She shoots me a look that could slice like a bullet. She’s good, I’ll give her that.
The what now? Whiskerface’s ear twitches with what might be amusement.
It sounded very official when we came up with it, Fish defends. The point is, we need cats who can handle serious rodent combat. Are you sure you’re up to the task?
Whiskerface considers this for a moment. What about the hoomans? They okay with us moving in?
Our hooman, Josie, specifically authorized this operation, Fish says proudly. She’s the park manager, and she understands that desperate times call for desperate measures.
Plus, she gives excellent ear scratches, I add. And yesterday, she let me lick her ice cream cone. Well, I didn’t exactly ASK permission, but she didn’t stop me either, which is basically the same thing as saying yes.
Like I said, I’m in, Whiskerface decides. But I’ve got conditions. I work alone, I don’t share kills, and if anyone tries to put a collar on me, I’m out of here.
Completely reasonable, Fish agrees. Now, do you know of any other cats in the area who might be interested in joining our cause?
There’s a calico named Patches who hangs around the dumpster behind the pizza place. She’s small but vicious—took down a raccoon twice her size last month. And there’s this black tom called Shadow who thinks he’s some kind of ninja.
Noted, Fish says, then turns to me. Next stop: the dumpster behind the pizza shack. I heard there’s a calico there with anger issues and a strong left hook.
Sounds like my type. I grin.
We split up—Fish vanishing like a small furry ninja, and me… well, I mostly just waddle.
Behind the pizza shack, I spot a vicious-looking calico sharpening her claws on a soggy cardboard box. She hisses at me before I even introduce myself. It’s love at first sight.
Hi! Are you Patches? We’re building a mouse-hunting task force. There’s food. There’s shelter. There are rodents begging to be conquered.
Who’s we? she growls.
I’m Chip. Fish is the brains. I’m the snacks. I mean, the charm. No, wait— I shake it off. We need you. Your claws. Your vibe. Possibly your terrifying energy.
She blinks slowly, then snarls.
I’ll consider it if I get first dibs on pizza crust.
Done.
Also, I want first pick of hammock spots, she mewls seductively.
I must look like a sucker. Mostly because I am.
Hammocks are negotiable, I tell her.
She considers me a moment longer. Then nods. Let me get my crew.
Crew?
Twenty minutes later, I return with not only Patches—a fierce-looking calico with one chewed ear and the attitude of a cat who’s never backed down from a fight—but also what appears to be a small army of additional cats following me like I’m some kind of orange pied piper.
Fish! Fish! Look what I found! I yowl with excitement. Patches brought friends! Lots of friends!
Fish looks up from her conversation with Shadow—a sleek black cat who does indeed move like a ninja—to see approximately twelve cats following me.
How did you manage this? Fish asks, impressed despite herself.
Well, I told Patches about the mice situation, and she was interested. But then I mentioned the Turkey Leg Emporium, and she got REALLY interested. So she told her friend Whiskers, who told HIS friend Mittens, who told HER friend Boots...
You started a recruitment pyramid, Shadow yowls with what might be respect.
A what what? I look confused.
Never mind, Fish sighs. The important thing is we now have a proper army. Everyone, gather around for the mission briefing.
The assembled cats form a loose circle, ranging from tiny kittens who probably shouldn’t be anywhere near a rodent combat operation to grizzled veterans who look like they could take down a small bear.
Welcome to the Feline Extermination Force, Fish begins with the authority of a general addressing her troops. Our mission is simple: eliminate the rodent infestation at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park. In return, you’ll receive food, shelter, and all the mice you can catch.
What about hoomans? calls out a nervous-looking orange kitten. Are they going to try to pet us?
Probably, Fish admits. But our hooman is acceptable. She provides quality food and doesn’t insist on ridiculous accessories like bowties or those little hats.
I wouldn’t mind a hat, I whisper to the kitten. As long as it’s not embarrassing. Maybe something military-themed? A beret? A raspberry beret that I can eat!
CHIP! Fish’s mental voice reaches new heights of exasperation. Focus! This is serious business!
Right, sorry. Serious business. Got it.
Now then, Fish continues, we’ll be dividing into strategic units. Patches, you’ll take the food court—I understand it requires someone with your particular skills.
Patches grins, showing teeth that have clearly seen some action. Finally, a job that appreciates my talents.
Shadow, you’ll handle perimeter surveillance. Use those ninja abilities of yours to patrol the park boundaries and make sure no rodents escape.
Shadow nods silently, because apparently, ninja cats don’t waste words.
Whiskerface, you’re in charge of the main midway. Those popcorn stands are going to be rodent central.
Understood, he growls.
The rest of you will be divided among the various themed areas. Chip will coordinate assignments and provide tactical support.
I will? I look surprised. What’s tactical support?
You’ll figure it out, Fish says with confidence she doesn’t entirely feel. Everyone else, remember—we’re not just catching mice here. We’re establishing our territory, proving our worth, and ensuring job security for the foreseeable future.
What about benefits? asks a sophisticated-looking Siamese. Health insurance? Dental?
You’re cats, Fish points out. You clean yourselves and your teeth are designed for hunting. What more do you need?
Fair point, the Siamese concedes.
Any other questions? Fish looks around the assembled group.
Yeah, calls out a tabby from the back. What happens if we run out of mice?
Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Fish says firmly. But given the size of this infestation, I don’t think we’ll be running out anytime soon.
Plus, I add helpfully, there are probably other things to hunt. Like bugs! And maybe small birds! And possibly those little lizards that run really fast!
Chip, Fish hisses, we’re here for rodent control, not a general ecosystem disruption.
Right, sorry. Mice only. Got it.
Excellent. Fish stands up, surveying her new army with satisfaction. Operation Mouse Hunt begins as soon as the park closes. Everyone get some rest. Soon enough, we take back this theme park!
The assembled cats disperse, chattering excitedly among themselves about assignments and hunting strategies. And soon enough, Fish and I find ourselves alone under a large oak tree.
That went well, I observe, while settling down for a pre-battle nap. I think we’re going to be excellent leaders.
I think you might be right, Fish agrees, curling up beside me. Though I suspect managing this army is going to be more challenging than the actual mouse hunting.
Probably. I yawn. But at least it’ll be fun. And there might be snacks.
There are always snacks with you involved, Fish mutters, but there’s affection in her voice. Now get some sleep. Soon we become legends.
Legends with full bellies, I add drowsily.
Obviously, Fish sighs. The best kind of legends.
Soon we go to war. But now? I nap like a hero. With dreams of turkey legs, mustard packets, and possibly... a badge.
Just saying. Legends deserve merch.