POST FOUR

 After several days of mostly fog, mist, gray skies, and rain, today’s sun feels fantastic. I’m sprawled on the deck, assessing life.

Christmas is ten days away. I’ve decided to ignore the ground squirrel problem until after the holidays. A cat can only do so much, you know? With the onset of winter and rain, and a busy winery, I need to concentrate on my job. 

 

Lately it’s been especially lively. The Concords finished fermenting, and He Who Must Be Obeyed has been pressing them and moving wine between tanks and a variety of barrels. Last week there was a wine pickup party (barrel rearrangement with forklift, HWMBO’s band, food, wine) and a huge wine club shipment (boxes, packing material, moving pallets and boxes with forklift). Now people are coming in to purchase wine, port, and brandy holiday gifts. Through it all I’ve remained vigilant. 

 

I’m not averse to doing my share of customer service. I like greeting customers. Many of them chat with me and give scratches and rubs. Rather a nice perk of the job.

 

Since HWMBO’s workload has increased, I’ve been giving him a paw and helping with the forklift by guiding and spotting. I don’t want to sound pompous, but HWMBO doesn’t allow just anyone to help operate the forklift. I’m an exception. With my superlative mouse detection skills and my fast-as-a-snapping-mousetrap reflexes, I’m a keen lookout. 

 

I should have known forklift training was coming when he taught me to drive the car. Granted, I’m unlicensed and can’t drive on the street, but there’re two big parking lots and a long private driveway that are fair game. I think HWMBO realized almost immediately that I was a natural. All that practice capturing mice, I guess. Hundreds of hours spent developing patience, good judgement, and a steady paw even in hair-raising circumstances.

 

Somewhere behind me I heard a soft, skittery sound. Time I got back to work.

 

I stretched, stood, and identified the source of the noise.

 

“Mustcat,” Simon the lizard said. “Can I interest you in a game of keep away?”

 

“Sure,” I said. I looked around for his mate. “Where’s Sheila? Doesn’t she want to play?”

 

Simon glanced over his shoulder. “Not sure where she is. Where’s Mustache?” 

 

“He’s patrolling the field. I guess it’s just you and me.”

 

Simon’s tongue flicked out and in. Soon after moving here, Simon started working as my trainer. He keeps my skills sharp. 

 

We lunged simultaneously—him darting away, me giving chase. He went over the edge of the deck and paused among the grape vine trunks. I flew off the deck and crouched a foot away. We eyed each other, grinning and breathing fast. 

 

I reached out, managing to connect with his tail as he turned and scurried out to the gravel lot. I raced after him. He put on the speed and added some fine darting technique. It kept me shifting right and left. He was headed for the grouping of plants near the steps. I’d lose him if he scurried in there. I strained hard. Just as I reached him, something brown darted between my feet. 

 

“Boo!” Sheila yelled.

 

Startled, I twisted and jumped, all four paws going airborne. I landed and saw Sheila and Simon hunched between two pots. 

 

“Sorry,” Simon said, rolling his eyes. “I had to promise not to warn you.”

 

“It’s okay,” I said. “It made a nice addition to the action.”

 

Sheila laughed. “It was my idea,” she confessed. “I’ve been so bored, and it sounded like fun. I tried to get Mustache to chase me, but he didn’t want to.” The ridges over her eyes lifted. “Is he sick or something?”

 

Sick? A rock landed in my gut and my stomach churned. Could Mustache be ill? Was that why he was acting so strange? I looked toward the railroad tracks but didn’t see him. I’ve already asked him what was wrong, and he denied he had a problem. Now even the lizards were noticing. I’m not imagining it. 

 

Gravel crunching beneath its tires, an SUV pulled up. “Catch you later,” I said, and winked. Simon and Sheila chuckled, and slipped between a crack in the steps. I headed back toward the visitors.

POST THREE

 

Hawk circled, then swooped toward us. Mustache and I held our ground, and with a couple lazy spread-wing flaps Hawk landed on the fence post. His head swiveled and he glared. Even knowing we’re too big for him to carry off, I had to fight the compulsion to hide. Those talons and that beak could do some serious damage.

 

His head tilted. I wished he’d blink once in a while, but that reddish-brown gaze was locked. Locked on me. The fur down the ridge of my spine lifted.

 

“Good day,” I said. 

 

Finally, he blinked. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” I replied. “Not with me,” I hurriedly added. “With the ground squirrels down the road.”

 

“The ground squirrels,” Hawk repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard me right.

 

“Yes. The fence line and the edge of the road are honeycombed with squirrel tunnels. The fence is ready to fall. I don’t know how far the tunnels extend, but I’m afraid part of the road will collapse. We don’t want that to happen.”

 

Hawk shook himself, ruffling his feathers. “What do you want me to do about it?”

 

“They’re always sitting on the fence posts, scampering around the field, and scurrying up and down the drive’s shoulder. Seems like easy pickins for you.”

 

Hawk peered down the drive. “Ah. You want me to eat them.”

 

“Yes, you and your friends. Doesn’t a tasty holiday feast of rodent sound good?”

 

Hawk turned back to Mustache and me. “I wouldn’t call those skinny burrowers tasty,” he said in a derisive tone. He gathered himself, gave a mighty flap of his wings, and launched into the air. A few additional flaps was all it took to get him up to cruising altitude.

 

“I don’t think he liked us bothering him with that,” Mustache said. “You need to forget about the ground squirrels. Let the people worry about them.”

 

“Forget them? What if the road collapses and He Who Must Be Obeyed drops into a sinkhole?”

 

“That’s not going to happen.” Mustache gave his tail a swish. “My stomach says it’s time for dinner. I’m going inside.”

 

I didn’t understand his lack of concern, but I put the squirrel situation to the back of my mind and followed my brother to the winery. A Seafood Sensation snack sounded sublime. HWMBO was working out back in the last rays of the sun and the rollup door was still up. No sooner had Mustache and I sauntered into the storage room and cozied up to our food dish, than the door came down with a rattle-slam. 

 

The walk-through door opened and He Who Must Be Obeyed entered. “Big storm hitting tonight,” he warned.

 

Oh, damn. He kept us locked inside whenever the weather went bad. If I didn’t mind getting wet and muddy and getting stickers in my fur, why did he care? I don’t like being confined and I don’t appreciate him treating me like a kitten. If I’d known my agenda included lockdown, I’d have stayed outside.

 

I rubbed against his leg, begging for a little attention and hoping for amnesty. He gave my head a quick, unsatisfactory scratch, went into the office, and closed the door. I sat, looked at the door, and gave a hearty meow to let him know what I thought of his actions. 

 

Well, no worries. I’m able to open the door. I’ll just let myself in. Except…. I heard HWMBO brace a board against the door, jamming it so it wouldn’t open. No! I hate when he does that. My bed, my space heater, and HWMBO were in there. I stretched up on my hind legs, flipped the door handle, and yowled as loud as I could.

 

How could he ignore that? But apparently he could, and I knew what it meant when he blocked the door. He was leaving. Going to play music, or listen to music, or eat (which meant no scraps for me). Or maybe it was date night.

 

“Give it up,” Mustache said. 

 

I dropped to all four and spun around. Mustache had settled atop a stack of boxes. “Why are you so complacent?” I asked. “You want in there as bad as I do.”

 

“I’m realistic, is all. He’s not going to let us in until he’s good and ready. And come morning, if the weather’s still bad, he’ll kick us right back to this room. We could end up spending several days here.”

 

As much as I hated the possibility, I knew Mustache was right. “You don’t mind roughing it, but I like my creature comforts,” I groused.

 

“Buck up, brother.” He rubbed his paw over his eye. “Think of those ground squirrels you hate so much. What do you think it’s like in one of those tunnels during a downpour?” He shuddered. “They could—” He broke off, as if he couldn’t say it.

 

“Drown,” I finished. “If only we could be that lucky.”

 

“There are families in that encampment,” Mustache said, sounding as upset as a cat whose mouse was snatched away. “Maybe you and HWMBO should think about that. They aren’t hurting anyone.”

 

I’ve heard the term “cat got your tongue,” but was never sure what it meant. Until now. Now I know, because Mustache has left me speechless. I can’t even form a meow. 

 

He’s right. I do need to think. Not about squirrels, but about my brother and why he’s acting so strange. 

Staring down a ground squirrel hole.
"Come on out. I dare you."