The Adventures of Button (15 page)

Mommy Kitty

Where she had come from, no one ever knew. None asked, and she talked very little about her background. One day, she had suddenly appeared, staying first at one home and then another. She took from one food bowl and then another. Most of the creatures, all pets of men, didn’t care. They had more than enough. One small nondescript tabby cat made no difference to them. Occasionally, one of the dogs could be heard barking as they chased her away, but she would be back. When they weren’t looking, of course.

But it was different with Buttons. She made it very clear that an interloper would not be tolerated. Buttons was even smaller than the cat, and possibly younger. The small Scottie still had her baby teeth, but she never hesitated to use them as everyone knew. Particularly Sally, whom Buttons had just met. They had become very close friends very quickly and fought long and furious battles, only now and then actually nipping one another. Their teeth were very sharp, as puppies’ teeth are. So care was the word of the day. Have fun. Lots of it. Rough and tumble, but no hurting.

Buttons did not include the cat among her friends. In a short time, everyone else would call her Mommy Kitty, for obvious reasons. She was always pregnant. Buttons didn’t care about the situation at all. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe just a dog-versus-cat kind—of thing. She didn’t know, and was always too busy to figure it out. Nonetheless, the black Scottie clearly remembered the first day. Too many birds and then the cat.

Crispin Chatterbox inquisitively cocked his head to one side for about the tenth time in the last thirty seconds, thinking to himself, “Well, here we go again.”

Crispin was like all grackles—nosy, noisy, and generally disliked. He was of less-than-normal size and always on the move. He impatiently hopped from one foot to the other, fretfully waiting for the action below to come to some fruition.

The object of his dancing stare lay roughly five and one half feet below him. A remarkable object it was, perched as it was on the rounded rear end of a small black dog furiously digging in the soft, red dirt of a beautifully organized garden.

Like a black, twisted worm, it bounced to and fro, carving crazy pirouettes in the air as dirt flew from between the dog’s hind legs. Small woofing noises were emitted at regular intervals, puffing out in jets of dirt which hung in the air about the rapidly enlarging hole.

A haughty crackling comment at Crispin’s side abruptly interrupted the grackle’s watchfulness and almost caused him to almost stop his dance in midair.

“I see that Button Benttail is at it again. Really, I don’t see what is so interesting about the silly activities of a mud-covered ground mutt. After all, it’s only bound to get her into more trouble.”

Crispin had immediately jerked around to face his unwelcome guest, who was, as expected, none other than that miserable, but very large, J. Wellington Blackbird. JW (as he insisted on being addressed) was of southern descent, born on a large plantation situated on a tributary of the mighty Mississippi River, and ready, willing and able, as they say, to enlarge on any topic whether his input was requested or not. Blackie (as most birds called him behind his back) lifted his left wing and preened himself, stylishly lifting one foot as he did so. Given to unwelcome snide comments about almost everything he surveyed, Blackie raised one eyebrow and looked down his nose at Crispin.

“Well, my little friend,” and he curled his bill just the slightest, “what you see in
the
Benttail, I’ll never know.”

Crispin’s small voice cracked as he angrily rose to his friend’s defense. Quite literally because it was necessary for Crispin to fan his wings and repeatedly hop into the air to be at eyelevel with Blackie.

“You don’t understand. What Buttons is doing is very important.”

Of course, Crispin had no idea what Buttons was doing, or why, or for what purpose. But being a true friend, it made no difference. All that was important was that if Button wanted to do it, then it was fine with Crispin. No friend to the nasty Blackie, Crispin would have come to Buttons’s defense no matter what.

Blackie bent down, twisting his head to fix Crispin with one lofty and elevated eyebrow above a startlingly black eye.

“Well,” he snorted.

Crispin fanned his wings even more rapidly. How he hated that arrogant snort.

“Well,” came the snort again. “Just what
is
she doing?”

Blackie raised one claw and carefully scratched his beak, only partially hiding his smile which twisted and curled his lip. This, Blackie knew, would agitate Crispin even more.

The deliberate and silent gibe went home, as Blackie had anticipated. Crispin hopped backwards on the fence, momentarily seeking an avenue of escape, then straightened. He wouldn’t give Blackie the satisfaction of flying away. And, he certainly wouldn’t leave his friend who maintained her vigorous assault on the dirt.

“She . . . she was going to . . .” He didn’t finish his explanation for another voice broke in.

“Hey, Cris.” It was the furry voice of Bonnie Cottontail coming from beneath a small and heavily laden rose bush. “How long is she going to take?”

There was hardly a pause, and another voice added, “And who’s that gosh-awful big, black bird?”

Blackie preened himself once again, and ever so slightly bent downward to gaze upon the small rabbits who sat lazily, scratching themselves in the early morning sun. He smiled to himself, the warmth of their awe slowly spreading through his body.

“Hurumph, well-spoken for small bunnies,” he thought to himself.

Another voice broke in. High-pitched and squeaky, it was whispered in a thunderous undertone to the small bunnies gathered about him. “Nuts, he ain’t all that big, less’n you take in the big words, the big voice, and the big opinion he has of himself. I’ve seen grackles almost that size.”

Now, it was JW’s turn to hop and fume in midair. Glaring at the rat-tailed squirrel, he fumed, “Don’t you think it’s a bit early for the runtiest runt of squirrels to be out of his bed, my tiniest friend, Ignatius?”

“Well, you know more about beds than most of us, seeing as how you rob ’em often enough.” Iggy, as he preferred to be called, was always ready for a good fight, so long as it didn’t come to any rough stuff. After all, he really wasn’t built for it, being rather stringy and small.

JW was about to launch another verbal thrust when he was interrupted. Several things happened at the same time. Crispin took quickly to the air, the bunny rabbits turned tail and disappeared, as did Iggy who headed for the nearest tree, and JW, turning, was face to face with a long, lean cat whose tail was slowly whipping back and forth. The cat lay crouched scant inches from JW.

The large blackbird knew he had been negligent, but still he squawked, “Drat, you, Crispin, it’s your fault. Your fault, you know.” JW knew very well it was his own fault. No bird allowed any cat within several feet, for as fast as he could take to the air, the cat would be upon him before he could reach safety. JW began to inch backwards, but came up against the corner fence post which served only to further hinder any possible escape. The cat smoothly followed, licking its thin lips.

JW was large, but the cat was within a foot now, and was quite obviously enjoying itself. Mealtime was at hand, and this particular morsel would go down with even greater satisfaction than most. JW’s snide comments had often been directed at the cat and now was payoff time.

The cat’s belly touched the top rail of the fence in anticipation of its lethal leap, when Buttons burst from her hole on the outside of the fence. She had been watching the action as she made the hole just big enough for her to escape the fenced yard. As she rose from the hole, she barked furiously, leaping up against the fence, her stout, but small, body causing the fence to sway ever so slightly.

The sound of her voice and the reverberations of the fence had hardly reached JW and the cat when JW launched himself into the air. The sudden interruption broke the cat’s concentration only for a tiny fraction of a second, but it had made the difference. The large blackbird was several feet from the fence and was ascending rapidly when the cat made a futile leap, clutching at the bird and grabbing a few large and long black tail feathers. The cat landed heavily in the dust of the Great Field just in front of the small dog.

Buttons did what dogs have done for eons; she attacked, barking even more furiously than before, racing toward the cat whose back immediately arched, hair on end. Spitting furiously, the cat easily evaded the small dog’s rush, and with a quick leap over the dog, reached the base of the fence. With one swift movement, she leaped to the top where she sat, gazing down with anger and frustration.

Buttons stopped her commotion as JW circled above her. Although still haughty, his voice was clearly chagrined at his narrow escape. He curtly thanked the small dog, while at the same time blaming her and Iggy for his narrow escape, and then headed for the tall maples some distance from the fence and the immediate environs of cat and dog.

Buttons sat at the bottom of the fence, contemplating the cat. She had never really met one before, and this one had angered her. The cat hissed as Buttons moved back and forth. “You had no right to interfere.” The cat’s voice was soft and quiet, but the words were angry and tightly controlled.

Buttons looked upward, somewhat startled by the cat’s comment. Sitting, she asked, “And why not? You would have eaten poor old JW if I hadn’t.”

As the cat answered, Buttons cocked her head to one side. This cat was a female, just like her, and was a typical tabby cat, black and brown stripes mingling with patches of brown.

The hissing voice of the cat came once again. “You will leave me and mine alone. Do you understand, little dog? Or else!”

“Or else what, cat?” queried Buttons. “This is not your yard and just who do you belong to? I’ve never seen you before.”

“It’s none of your business, dog. Go, and leave me alone.” The cat sat and began washing a forepaw, her tail still lashing back and forth in poorly disguised anger.

Buttons snorted. “First, cat,” and here she emphasized the last word, “you have no business here. Secondly, I’m not afraid of you, and you will stay out of my yard. Thirdly, you will leave my friends alone. Go elsewhere, if you must hunt, but get out of my sight.”

Buttons was beginning to get angry as young pups will. She began to hop up and down on her short, stout legs, growling deeply in her throat, daring the cat to do something. Which is precisely what the cat did, as cats will.

She leaped to the ground, landing just behind Buttons, who spun on her tail. But it was too late, and Buttons was too slow, which she learned to her woe. The feline raked her claws across Buttons’s round rump, and then as Buttons whirled again, whipped her claws across a very sensitive nose.

Buttons howled in pain as the cat spat, yowling in return as her anger at the dog rose. Buttons was also becoming more and more enraged and attacked fiercely, but to little avail. She was getting badly mauled when respite arrived in the figure of her closest friend, Sally.

Sally sailed into the fight with sheer joy, bugling as she did so. The cat, who was no taller than Buttons, but longer, was really not all that big. In fact, the cat was downright thin, her sides sunken in, with little evidence of fat anywhere. The cat had no chance against the two fierce little fighters. For, although they were young, they had no intention of giving in. All three rolled in the dirt, giving as good as they got. Finally, seeing her opportunity, the cat broke free and with one leap made it to the top of the fence. She stood there for a moment, glaring at the two dogs, as she was now puffing from the exertion. Then, with a graceful twist, the cat disappeared from sight, leaving the two dogs wondering how she could do it.

Both Sally and Buttons sat abruptly, taking measure of their many scratches. Buttons in particular had taken a real beating and she glared at Sally, daring her to say something. Sally did, of course, but not what Buttons had anticipated.

Instead of some dumb comment about the many scratch marks Buttons’s nose bore, Sally said in a speculative voice, “Boy, did she disappear fast. I wonder where she lives. It must be close by, though I don’t remember meeting her before.”

Buttons muttered as much to herself as to Sally, “You know, I think maybe you’re right. She didn’t really want to leave, but . . .” Here, Buttons grinned hugely, “We didn’t give her much choice, did we? Sure showed her. And, if I find her, I’m really going to give it to her. And I will find her, watch and see.”