POST TWO

 Mustache is avoiding me. 

It’s worrisome. He’s my brother and my best friend, and I’m used to him hanging close. I depend on him being there if I need backup. Granted, he’s the quiet type, an introvert, but he’s never been moody. He’s the definition of easy-going, except when it comes to associating with Mama. But that’s a story for another day.

 Lately he’s been going his own way. I’ll catch him sitting alone, gazing at the grape vines, a contemplative look on his face. Almost an expression of yearning. So you understand why I’ve wondered what in whiskers is going on.

 

This afternoon I patrolled around the winery twice before I saw him by the gate, gazing down the drive. I moseyed over and, yep, he had that look on his face. He saw me and tensed just that little bit—the little bit that confirmed I’m not imagining things. I sat beside him and the tip of his tail flicked.

 “Any action?” I asked.

 

Mustache’s job performance isn’t a worry. He may have something on his mind, but it’s not interfering with rodent detection and elimination.

 

Sphinx-like, he stared down the drive. “Nope.”

 

I waited until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately, bro. Something bothering you?” 

 

Mustache’s golden eyes widened. “No,” he said, fast. Too fast.

 

“You sure? Lately, you’ve seemed pensive.”

 

His right ear twitched. Whatever he was about to say, it was a lie.

 

“No idea what you mean. I’m great.”

 

He headed back toward the winery and I joined him. He couldn’t be bored, could he? We’re still in The Crush (grape harvest and wine-making time, when the grapes are crushed) and there’s been plenty of activity at the winery to keep us entertained. I love this time of year, when I can spend my days in the sun, and my nights in front of the space heater. 

 

He Who Must Be Obeyed was out back, rinsing off the punchdown tool. Fermenting grapes have to be stirred, or punched, every few hours. He’s been punching the last grapes of the season. Concords.

 

A shadow floated across the ground and I looked up. Hawk.

 

“There he is.” I stopped and my tail went straight up. I’m determined to talk to him, but holy whiskers, it’s scary. Mustache halts and we stand shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s now or never.

 

“Hawk. Could I have a word?”

POST ONE

 “Mustcat,” He Who Must Be Obeyed called.

I heard him, but ignored the summons. I’d been checking out the pallet stack for an hour, and now, finally, something was moving. I wasn’t about to abandon my post at the critical moment. With a twitch of my nose I took a strong, steady sniff and tensed. 

 

A pointy snout emerged from an opening in the weathered pine. I relaxed. Not a rodent. A lizard. 

 

“Hey, Simon,” I said. 

 

Simon and Sheila live among the rocks in front. They moved in a couple years ago, and they love the combination of sun and potted plants. Simon wriggled his tail, teasing. I batted at him, but he scurried away, laughing over his shoulder. “Next time,” I called. 

 

Day shift, I patrol outside Autry Cellars. At nightfall I move inside, but I’m no less busy. There aren’t many jobs that include room and board or require the employee to work every waking hour, but as Supervisor of Rodent Control, that’s my mission. Like most cats, I have a reputation for sleeping twenty hours a day, but that doesn’t mean I neglect my duties. Even in my sleep I hear everything. If a mouse breaks wind at fifty yards, I know it.

 

I circled around front, paused and gazed down the driveway. There’s an enemy encampment where the dirt drive meets Edna Road, but for now, all was quiet. The ground squirrels outnumber me and have the strategic advantage—a huge network of underground tunnels. We’d agreed to live and let live, but I’m afraid we’re approaching the point of no return. They’ve been gradually taking over and there’s no reasoning with the maniacs. They’re well organized and tireless and they’ve now undermined the road foundation. They’re rodenarly as big as I am, and they’re devious. I want to take them down. I just don’t know how to do it.

 

I found Mustache waiting at the door. “Hey, bro,” I greeted him. We were litter mates, and we’d both been homeless before He Who Must Be Obeyed took us in. Mustache gave a meow loud enough to carry inside. Sure enough, a moment later HWMBO opened the door and we scurried off to our waiting food dish.  

 

I’ve been contemplating something rather drastic--striking up a conversation with the Red-tailed Hawk that comes around. I don’t know anyone who communicates with these guys, but if I could talk a few of them into helping with the squirrel problem…. Well, wouldn’t that be sweet? They could probably scare the burrowers off without half trying. I’m not sure how I’ll get up the nerve to approach him. It may require some lengthy contemplation, accompanied by a glass of Merlot.