Sneaky Pie For President

Give Peace a Chance

“Isn’t that the dumbest name, Tufted Titmouse?” Pewter giggled, looking up at the handsome little bird, the size of a sparrow.

“Fatass is funnier,” the saucy bird called down from the thin branch of a loblolly pine. Below her, Pewter and Sneaky Pie strolled down a farm road, just west of where the human lived.

Sneaky Pie laughed. The gray cat smacked her.

“Hey!”

“Well, stop encouraging him,” Pewter reprimanded Sneaky. “How quickly you forget.”

“Forget what?”

“I was the one who liberated the catnip. You wimped out.”

“I didn’t wimp out.”

“Yeah, sure. We didn’t even get spanked for it. All she did was bitch and moan and sweep up what we left,” Pewter boasted, quite satisfied with herself.

As the cats walked along the dirt road, woods on one side and open pasture on the left, other birds flocked to join the insulting Tufted Titmouse. Black-crested Titmice flew to perch on branches along with chickadees, creepers, and one Downy Woodpecker, all of them chattering away.

“Fatty, fatty,” they called down, encouraged by Joe, the Tufted Titmouse.

Pewter was fuming. “I might just call all of you chickens. Fly off those branches and I’ll kill every last one of you,” she threatened.

A well-groomed chickadee flew lower and counseled the gray cat in a confidential tone. “If you ignore Joe, he’ll pick on someone else.”

The Tufted Titmouse overheard. “You are such a gossip,” said Joe to the chickadee. “You try to get on the good side of everyone, woo them into telling you stuff, then you chirp chirp chirp it all over the woods, the fields, the farm.”

Glynnis, the chickadee, who was indeed inclined to chirp too much, protested, “I am no gossip.”

“Well, I have some gossip.” Sneaky Pie sat down, wrapping her impressive, bushy tail around her.

“Really?” Above, on her perch, Glynnis was enthralled before she even heard a word.

“Do you really, really?” chirped the chickadee, excitedly swooping in circles.

“Really.” Sneaky Pie nodded to the chickadee, then looked up at the other gathered birds, who now fell silent. “You know this is a presidential election year?”

“Of course we know,” the Downy Woodpecker replied. “I hear all about it.”

“You do?” The Black-crested Titmouse flew closer to the woodpecker, larger than he was but not huge like the Pileated Woodpecker.

“The radio in the barn, the radios in the trucks, and if you sit on the ledge of the open window you can hear everything on the TV. Same old same old,” the woodpecker said, her voice a staccato.

A tinier-than-usual Yellow Warbler, just two years old, looked up to the Downy Woodpecker with wide eyes. “What’s an election?”

The Downy cocked his head. “A bunch of people say hateful things about one another and then promise the moon to other people, who give them money. Whoever gets elected gets to live in a fancy house. They can eat all the seeds they want. It happens every few years, and humans fall for it every time.”

“Oh, my.” The Yellow Warbler shook her head, confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Do you want to hear my gossip or not?” The tiger cat swished the tip of her tail.

“Tell! Tell!” the chickadee begged.

The Tufted Titmouse dropped down to a lower branch as well. “I told you Glynnis lived for gossip.”

“Oh. This is about the presidential election. If a Bible-thumper gets elected, your name will be changed.”

“Joe. The Bible-thumper will outlaw the name Joe?” The Tufted Titmouse—whose name was Joe—was incredulous.

“No, he and his followers will outlaw any words they think salacious: words like titmouse.” Sneaky pronounced this with gusto.

“Never!” both the Tufted and the Black-crested blurted out.

Pewter, catching on, baited the birds. “For these hormone-addled humans, I’m afraid your name possibly has a sexual connotation.”

“What? My name? My species name?” Joe snapped his bill, which clicked. “Impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible in an election year. Think it over,” Sneaky calmly advised.

“Not only will the religious nuts change your name, they are going to make Sneaky and me wear four little bras.” Pewter gilded the lily.

At that, Glynnis laughed so hard she nearly fell off her perch. The cats might have had an early supper.

Just then a cowbird who had been sitting on the pasture-side fence joined the avian group.

“Pickpocket!” the Yellow Warbler screamed. “Lazy! Bad mother!”

“Shut up, squirt.” The cowbird glared at the tiny bird, who usually stayed high in the trees.

But the Yellow Warbler was indignant. Tiny, but indignant. It was something to see. “You lay an egg among mine, then leave me to feed and raise it. Your behavior is despicable.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen you push them out. Splat!” the cowbird responded. “So stop acting so high and mighty.”

“It’s not my job to hatch your egg.” Puffed up, small though she was, the Yellow Warbler did look tough.

“Do you really do that?” asked Pewter. It was hardly normal bird behavior to abandon eggs. But then the whole species was flighty. Pewter liked them for breakfast or lunch.…

“Well, why should I exhaust myself if someone else will do the work for me?” the cowbird defended herself. She was tired of this argument. It’s like everyone wanted to give her mothering advice.

Sneaky, considering this, replied, “You don’t care if your egg is destroyed?”

“Some make it, some don’t,” said the cowbird. “Anyway, I am not raising a bunch of brats, beaks always open, squawking for more food. Give me a break.”

Still puffed up, the Yellow Warbler sharply added to the conversation. “You could stop breeding. Try and control your primal urges!”

“Why? As long as I can get away with it, this girl just wants to have fun.”

Glynnis was reveling in the exchange. With a superior tone, she said, “The rest of us are a bit more sensible about the number of eggs we produce.”

“Jealousy, thy name is chickadee,” said the cowbird. “Now, shut your beaks!” And with that, she opened her wings and returned to the pasture fence.

“Did you hear how she insulted me?” squeaked Glynnis. “If I ever so much as see one of her eggs in anybody’s nest, I will peck a hole in it.” She flew up to sit beside the Yellow Warbler.

“I suppose that’s one solution to the problem,” Pewter dryly commented. “Murder the young.”

The Yellow Warbler fumed. “First of all, the damned cowbird isn’t hatched yet, and second, the egg has no business in my nest, and last, you fat thing, cute as the baby may be, it will grow up to be as awful as its mother.”

“You can kill as many cowbird eggs as you like,” said the Tufted Titmouse, ruffling his feathers. He stared down at Sneaky Pie, more interested in another matter entirely. “You really think my name will be changed?”

“Mine, too?” The Black-crested Titmouse echoed the concern.

“A presidential candidate is talking about people marrying animals.” Sneaky Pie relayed this with relish. “No woodpecker or titmouse is safe!”

All the birds screeched, fluttered up, then landed back on their original perches.

“We must stop the human insanity,” Sneaky pronounced, warming to her subject as she looked up at the bird. They usually fled her company, but now her prey, she held their rapt attention. “None of us wants to marry a human,” said Sneaky.

“No.” Again, the avian chorus.

“No, indeed!” chirped the chickadee.

“But that’s only the beginning,” said Sneaky. “The humans forget that we’re Americans, too. We share these trees, the pastures, the rivers, and the ocean with the humans, right?”

“Yes,” agreed a chorus of squawks.

“But the humans are destroying the things we need to live,” continued the tiger cat. “We aren’t destroying their habitat, are we?” asked Sneaky. She didn’t really expect an answer. It was a rhetorical question, to try to get these bird brains thinking. Sneaky wondered for a moment why she bothered. But then, she increasingly enjoyed this public speaking. She scanned her audience.

An uneasy silence was finally interrupted by one of the iridescent Tree Swallows. “It’s true. We cause them little trouble, and they cause us much. But what’s to be done? They don’t listen to us. They rarely think of us at all.”

“Some do.” Sneaky Pie admired the shining teal head and wings of the bird, its white underside in bright contrast to its swallowtail coat.

“Well, they could certainly pay us more attention,” the Tufted Titmouse called.

“I propose we do something about it,” said Sneaky. “I want to represent us, the other citizens of America.” The tiger cat boldly pronounced, “They will hear our voices.”

Pewter blinked, then whispered to her feline companion, “You’re out of your mind.”

“How can you possibly get humans to listen?” Glynnis asked, nervous as ever.

“If you think about it, Pewter and I live with one. It’s a matter of psychology. While they appear to be acting like lunatics, upon study they are surprisingly predictable. We know their ways.”

“You’re not the only one watching them,” Joe boomed, seemingly affronted. “We see them go in and out all the time, rushing this way and that, though it’s true I cannot say I discern their purpose, or any sort of pattern.”

The tiger nodded at the titmouse, who was smarter than Sneaky Pie had first thought. “When you live with one or two humans, you become close. They’re not half bad, and they really try, or at least mine does. You train them by using a system of rewards. Works better than pecking their eyes out.”

“So you actually think you can get your human to see what we need?” Glynnis was now fascinated.

“I do,” answered Sneaky. “Now, it’s a big step from that to becoming a presidential candidate. If enough of us band together, we might get some serious attention. Obviously, they’re not that bright. It might take them a while to hear our message, but it’s worth a try. Working together is the only shot we have. We must lead by example. If we can get along and unite for a cause, why can’t they?”

A silence followed this. “You’re right.” The second of the Tree Swallows plucked out a chest feather, holding it in her beak.

Joe shrewdly negotiated, “A moratorium on cats hunting birds?”

“Well—” Pewter was about to screw the whole deal.

“I can work on that, but I promise that Pewter and I will not kill any of you.”

“Let us think about it,” the Black-crested Titmouse suggested, and the other birds chirped in agreement. “We have no reason to trust a cat.”

“You have a reason to trust this cat.” The tiger sounded convincing.

The female Tree Swallow dropped her chest feather. The white feather slowly twirled downward until it hovered right above the tiger cat. She then dropped off the branch and, with that speed and grace peculiar to all the swallows, zoomed in front of Sneaky’s nose, snatching the feather right out of the air.

The other birds gasped.

Given to expressions of emotion, Glynnis shouted, “You could have been killed!”

The Tree Swallow flew back to her friend, who chided her, “That was damned foolish.”

“But a good test. Besides, I can fly at a right angle if I have to.”

Her friend nodded but secretly thought that no bird should ever trust a cat’s reflexes, even an old one like that fatty.

“If you promise to work with me,” Sneaky called up, “I will not harm a feather on any of you should you join my movement.”

“We’ll think it over.” The Downy Woodpecker was impressed but wanted to confer with his winged companions.

A high-pitched scream overhead silenced the assembled. A large shadow played down on the cats, then a two-foot Red-shouldered Hawk alighted on a sturdy sycamore branch.

“Don’t fly away,” the big raptor commanded the smaller birds. “You’re safe. I know some of my cousins chase after you for sport, but I don’t eat birds.”

“Art, where were you?” Joe, fearless as only Tufted Titmice can be, called the big fellow by his name.

“By the pond, watching the pasture,” the hawk replied. “Heard all this talk over here.” His dark eyes and black curved beak pointed down to the two cats. “It’s one thing to make a promise to these squirts. What about hawks, falcons, goshawks, ospreys, eagles?”

“We’re all Americans. We share the earth.” Sneaky’s green eyes met those of the bird, who was bigger than she was. “And let me tell you something, Art. You have federal protection, but that doesn’t protect the land or the waters. Just means you can’t be hunted.”

“Hm-m-m.” Art glanced around at the other birds, breathlessly awaiting his response.

“We need one another,” Sneaky said, voice clear.

“What about the game I hunt?” Art wondered. “How can you represent both me and mice? Have you thought of that?”

“I have.” Well, she hadn’t really, but she’d wing it—so to speak. “If our living places, the foods we eat, are not polluted, poisoned, or plowed under for a housing development, things will balance out. I can’t tell you not to hunt mice. I can only tell you to trust a natural balance. That’s why there are predator and prey animals. Too many of one or the other and everyone suffers. It’s yet another example of an imbalance of power.”

A murmur attended this.

Art inhaled deeply, his mighty chest pushing out. “Cat, you got my vote. Good luck.”

The birds chirped, Sneaky thanked the Red-shouldered Hawk, and the two cats headed back up the dirt road to the barns.

“How can you get our human to understand, much less all humans?” asked Pewter. The gray cat thought Sneaky Pie might just be losing her mind.

“I don’t know,” Sneaky answered frankly. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t find a way. The more animals we talk to, the more ideas I’ll get. I’m convinced dialogue is necessary.”

“Sneaky Pie, we’re old friends, but I think you’re crazy.”

“Maybe we have to be just a little, you know?”

As they reached the top of a small hill, from above the cowbird suddenly swooped, pooping right onto the tiger cat’s back before flying away.

Pewter couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, there’s a vote of confidence.”

Sneaky Pie laughed, too. “That cowbird is making her opinion known. I suppose it’s a form of free speech. I just didn’t realize politics would get so messy so fast!”