Sneaky Pie for President

Cast Off Your Chains!

“Don’t you just love shiny things?” Pewter held up in her paw a golden chain with a medallion hanging on it.

“Not much,” the corgi confessed.

The gray cat swung the chain a bit, then dropped it on the worn wooden floor to hear the pleasing metallic clink.

The sound awakened Sneaky Pie, asleep on a kitchen chair.

Tally, under the chair, also woke up. The Jack Russell got up and stretched. Even stretched out, she wasn’t very long. “Let me see,” she said. “I want to see the shiny thing.”

Pewter swung the chain toward the Jack Russell, who grabbed it in her teeth.

“Tastes, um—” The dog dropped the chain. “Not edible.”

“You knew that.” Pewter picked up the glittering chain.

“Had to be sure.” The little dog sat down on the kitchen floor.

Sneaky, off the chair now, hooked a claw through the other end of the chain.

The two cats pulled, the chain’s medallion sliding first in one direction and then the other.

“Fun.” Pewter’s pupils expanded.

“Whoo.” Sneaky lifted up her end of the chain so the medallion slid down to Pewter, who then reversed the procedure.

The cats, enraptured by their game, paid no attention to the screened door opening and the light footfall.

“I wondered where that was.” The C.O. stepped into the kitchen, grabbed the chain.

“You weren’t wearing it.” Pewter tugged, not releasing her end.

“Pewter.” The C.O. put the cat’s paw between her forefinger and thumb with one hand while extricating the chain with the other.

As the chain swung in her right hand, Sneaky took a whack at it.

The C.O. laughed. “That’s what I get for leaving jewelry on the counter.”

She hooked the chain around her neck. The two cats longingly stared at the treasure.

“That necklace would look better on me than her,” Pewter said, diplomacy cast aside.

“The gold would show up nicely against your gray fur,” Sneaky agreed.

“I’ve seen dogs with heavy chain collars. I don’t want one.” Tally’s mind turned back to the kibble in her dish.

“You’d fall down with a heavy chain around your neck.” Pewter tormented the dog by going over and sitting next to Tally’s food bowl.

This way the cat could pat Tally’s head when the dog ate. Drove the dog crazy.

Snapping a dishtowel off the rack, the C.O. polished the medallion. “Maybe I should get little steel Saint Hubert’s medals and attach them to your collar. This is my Saint Hubert’s medal, you know. Mother gave it to me.”

The C.O.’s mother had died decades ago yet was missed every day.

“Doesn’t look bad on you, it just would look better on me. Steel? No. I should wear gold.” Pewter gabbled away.

“I’m not wearing a collar or a necklace,” Sneaky Pie said. “I will not be put in chains.”

“I don’t have a choice. Have to wear my collar and my rabies tag.” Tucker thought a medal might be pretty. “The tag always pulls off, so she has to keep paperwork. As if I’m going to bite anybody.”

“I am.” Pewter smiled broadly. “I think I’ll start with you.”

Menacingly, she circled Tucker, who ignored her.

Tally padded over to the ceramic bowl. Pewter charged over to the bowl.

Tally, a tidbit dropping from her jaws, warned, “You don’t like dog food. Leave me alone.”

“If I’m hungry enough I’ll eat your food, but mine is better. Has more fat in it.”

“I know,” Tally sarcastically replied, at which the cat cracked her right over the skull. “Ouch!”

“Peon,” Pewter snapped.

Tally lunged for her, but the gray cat easily evaded the dog by jumping straight up. She then came down behind Tally, biting the dog’s tail just enough to register.

“Stop it.” Tally twirled around as Pewter leapt onto the counter, looking down with a wide, satisfied grin.

“This is going to be one of those days.” The C.O. crossed her arms over her chest. “Bubba pushed a gate off the hinges. Had to tie it up until I can get someone to help me. And my mortgage is due. I hate sitting down to write checks.” She did, however, sit at the table for a moment.

“Sorry.” Sneaky Pie jumped on her lap. “At least your necklace isn’t ruined.”

She looked down at the stag’s head with the cross between its mighty antlers. “Mother bought this in Vienna, at a jewelry store by the Spanish riding school where the Lipizzaners are. I cherish this.”

“I still think medals for the dogs is a good idea.” The cat placed her paw on the C.O.’s hand, which held her medal up so she could see the beautiful work on the medallion.

Petting Sneaky’s glossy head with the other hand, the C.O. said, “I love Saint Hubert. Guess Pewter does, too.” She looked over at the cat, who struck a pose. “He’s the patron saint of hunting and hounds. No one knows exactly when he was born, but probably around 656 A.D. He died in 727. So he lived to be seventy-one, a good age in any century, but really marvelous back then.”

“Hounds? Really, is there a patron saint of cats?” Pewter looked down at Tally, winking at the dog, which only further infuriated her.

“Saint Francis,” Sneaky replied. “Everyone loves Saint Francis.”

“He doesn’t count,” said Pewts. “I mean, he loved everybody, you know. There are paintings of him with birds and all that. No, I want a saint who dedicated her or his life to cats.”

“You might have to wait for that,” Tucker drowsily called up to the cat.

“Well, what’s the big deal about Saint Hubert?” Pewter sniffed.

“No big deal,” said Sneaky. “Just that the C.O. loves the necklace and medal. But I think the story goes that Saint Hubert was a rich youth who passed up Good Friday’s service in church to hunt. There weren’t many churches then, as much of Belgium and Europe was still pagan. He heard church bells but paid no attention. A giant stag walked in front of him, the cross appearing in his antlers.”

“How do you know that?” Pewter became mildly interested.

“Because she’s told the story so many times.”

“Well, I don’t remember it.” Pewter crouched lower on the counter, threatening to jump onto Tally.

“ ’Course not,” Tally shot back. “You’re too busy thinking about yourself.”

With that, the cat arced off the countertop smack onto the little dog. Pewter growled ferociously, pulled some white fur out, then disengaged and ran for all she was worth out the animals’ door, out the screened door (which also had an animal door), and all the way to the barn.

Tally was in hot pursuit.

“Dear God.” The C.O. got up and hurried outside, making it to the barn in time to see the cat scramble up the ladder affixed to the wall while the dog barked below.

“All right. All right. Enough. Come on, Tally.”

The dog obeyed, angrily looking back to see the cat giggling at her.

“I’ll get you,” Tally growled.

“That’s what you say,” Pewter sassed.

Back in the kitchen, the dog drank some water while the human knocked back a Co-Cola. Then they both sat down for a minute. Sneaky had calmly watched the whole dog and cat drama unfold, as had Tucker. They sat together on the floor.

Tucker asked, “Do you really think Hubert saw a vision?”

“Maybe,” Sneaky answered. “People sometimes can see beyond the veil. I don’t know, but she loves to tell the story. Why not believe it?”

“You’re right,” Tucker agreed. “Maybe there are special days and times when we should all dedicate ourselves to doing the same thing. For them it’s a holiday or church. I think all dogs should celebrate Rin Tin Tin’s birthday, and Lassie’s as well.”

“I, for one, celebrate every day,” Sneaky said and purred.

Tally dripped water on the floor off her mustache. “Pewter’s funny, wanting a saint dedicated just to cats.”

“You let her get under your skin. Ignore her,” Sneaky counseled.

The C.O. got up, pulled out some treats for the cat and the dog, giving them out as she reminisced with them, “You all never met my mother. She was social, I mean really social, smart, and a wonderful dancer. We’d go places, and men would line up to dance with Mom. But we didn’t have much money, and she always wanted to go to Austria. She loved music, and she wanted to attend the opera at the big opera house there. She wanted to see the Spanish Riding School, too. She saved and saved. I chipped in, a few of her friends did, too, and for her seventieth birthday, off she went. Pretty fabulous, isn’t it?”

“It is. A dream come true.” Sneaky Pie had seen photographs of the C.O.’s mother, a stylish woman.

“How old is she?” Pewter looked at their human.

“How would I know?” Tucker said.

“You know a lot else.” Sneaky shifted her weight. “But it’s usually easy to tell how old they are. Especially if they’re from Nordic countries. Skin can’t take this Virginia sun.”

“Hers is okay.” Sneaky jumped back up on the table. “Well, she never talks about her age, because I think she doesn’t care.”

“Oh, please,” said Tucker. “They all care. They’re obsessed with it. Billions are spent annually by humans thinking they can make themselves look younger.”

“Billions?” Tally wondered.

“Of dollars.”

“Billions of dollars to look pretty, and it’s not just women. Men, too. There’s plastic surgery, thousands of creams and potions. Stuff they have shot into their skin, even their lips. The mere thought of it makes me cringe. Needles.” Tucker closed his eyes tight.

“Eeww.” Tally did, too.

“Yeah, but our age doesn’t show so quickly.” Sneaky struggled to understand the human viewpoint. “Everyone looks good in fur.”

“Needles in lips.” Tally’s voice rose to a high screech, making the C.O. look at her.

Tucker perked up her ears. “It does sound pretty awful.”

“She’s not doing any of it.” Sneaky peered closely at the C.O.’s face.

“So how old do you think she is?” Tucker wondered, too.

“Hard to tell. No fat. Strong body. Moves fine. But there are deep creases by her mouth, wrinkles around her eyes, and her hair has gray in it. I don’t know. I mean, she has to be kind of old, but she’s not creaky yet.”

“Baffles me. The whole aging thing,” Tucker said. “I guess when I can’t herd the horses or chickens anymore, I’ll know I’m old.”

“They move around more than we do,” said Sneaky. “They meet more of their own species than we do. She just told us about her mother flying to Vienna when she was seventy. So maybe they want to look really good for all the new people and young people are pretty.”

“Nah, it’s about money.” Tucker threw out a dash of cynicism. “The young buy more junk than older people. That’s why so many ads are pitched to them. They don’t know enough about real quality yet, plus they need to establish households. It’s all about spending. I guess that makes older people want to look young, too. You all see the stuff on TV, you want it.”

“I guess.” Sneaky peered more closely at her C.O., who reached out and stroked the cat under her chin. “But I think the surest way to look old is to try to look young.”

Just then Pewter, triumphant, returned. “Ta-da.”

Tally wagged her tail, taking a step toward the gray cat.

“You two: Cut it out.” The human spoke forcefully.

Pewter joined Sneaky on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me you talked to the owl last night?”

“I didn’t tell you because you were too busy with the chain. I like him. He’s not so much like other birds.”

“M-m-m. He woke up when I was in the hayloft, told me some of what you all talked about. Makes me think. I mean, about gods, goddesses, and now saints. Do you think there were once giants and stuff like that? Dragons?”

“Well, in Genesis there’s a mention of giants. I like it when she reads her books out loud, so yes, why not? Aren’t we all evolving? Some species live. Some die off. If there were dinosaurs, why not giants, dragons, or angels?” Sneaky thought it made sense. “I think of Shetland ponies bred in upper latitudes. Maybe they lived, but fairies and giants didn’t. The creatures that survived lived in the middle latitudes. You know, medium-sized things.”

“You could say in your campaign that you’re descended from a saber-toothed tiger,” Pewter suggested.

“Cool.” Tally liked the image.

“I suppose ultimately I am, but that ancestor stuff doesn’t work these days. Candidates have to pretend to be one of the people, and the truth is, if you’re running for president, you aren’t.”

“H-m-m. Never thought of that.” Now that Sneaky pointed this out, Tucker could see it. “A candidate is supposed to be like Joe Average. Being rich is a sin, right?”

“Being rich is a miracle,” Pewter replied.

They laughed. “Well, if money is the issue, then Sneaky, you’re one of the people. We don’t have but so much money.” Tucker smiled.

“I know. And that’s what I think will make our human old,” Sneaky said. “She’s like so many humans, worrying about money.”

“Really?” Tally quizzically replied.

“Yes. She struggles. She works too long and too late, and you know what, millions of them do just the same to make ends meet. I don’t want our mother to make herself old, to die of a heart attack or something just to pay the bills, the taxes.”

“Millions?” Tally was aghast.

“Tally, there are seven million people out of work, and that figure only counts those on unemployment. Who knows the true figure—those that are now off the benefit rolls, those that are too defeated and poor to look for a job? It takes money to look for a job, Tally. You need nice clothes, you need gas money and a car that will run. You need a haircut and money for parking, too. If you farm like our mom, you need constant equipment repair, and diesel fuel is so much more expensive than regular gas. Seed prices shot up, fertilizer is through the roof. You’ve seen her fertilize, over-seed, harvest, then store her hay. That takes time, money, and help. No one can farm all by themselves. People are scared, you all, scared, exhausted, and deep-down angry.”

“They made this mess,” Pewter rightfully observed.

“Not all of them.” Tucker was thinking along with Sneaky. “Our human never stole money from anybody. She never sold a bad bale of hay pretending it was good. Those people losing their homes were lured into it, sold a bill of goods, you know. Many, most of them, weren’t financially educated. Maybe they should have known better, but they didn’t. They were deceived by those crooks on Wall Street and in Congress who opened the door for the Big Boys.”

“Then there’s the problems with pensions, entitlements, that sort of thing.” Sneaky nodded. “Both ends against the middle. And our human is stuck in the middle, along with millions of other Americans—humans and animals.”

“Well.” Pewter paused a long time. “I don’t want our C.O. to wear herself out, to lose what she’s worked for. You do see things differently, Sneaky. You provide an alternative view, and that is sorely needed.”

Tucker added, “We love our human. We might not talk about it, but we love her, and she loves us. Remember when she was looking at the American Pet Products Association stuff on the computer, Sneaky?”

“Yeah, I called down the numbers to you.”

“And I remember: Sixty-two-point-one percent of U.S. households have an animal in them. That’s millions upon millions of dogs, cats, birds, horses, and I guess goldfish and stuff, but mostly us. All those cats, dogs, and horses love their humans. Okay. Maybe a small percentage of humans are cruel and mistreat their animals. Hell, they mistreat their children, but most don’t. Those dogs and cats and such are your constituency.”

“Tucker, I hope you’re right,” Sneaky replied.

“What about the undomesticated animals?” Pewter wondered.

“I’d like their support, too, at least some of them. But I think Tucker’s right. Humans will first respond to the animals closest to them, the ones they trust. They have a hard enough time understanding us. It will be really hard for them to understand a mountain lion or a sparrow. We need to reach our own first.”

Sneaky rubbed against the C.O.’s face. “So how can I tell her we want justice for all?”