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."