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?”