Рита Браун - Sneaky Pie For President

The damp night air filled her nostrils with scent. Scent intensified at night.

She often wondered about each species’ gifts. What would it be like to possess the power and speed of a horse, the grace of a deer, the soaring ability of the eagle a mile up? What would it be like to be a tiny mouse gathering bits of wool, paper, and cotton to make a cozy nest? Sneaky wasn’t much for nests, but she admired the skill it took to build one, especially a big one, high up in a tree. Even squirrels’ nests, sloppy by a cat’s standards, took effort.

Sitting there thinking about how many animals—potential supporters in her campaign—lived just in Virginia, not to mention the entire fifty states, the cat felt overwhelmed by her mission.

Maybe Tally was right. Maybe Sneaky Pie should hand off her noble quest to man’s so-called Best Friend. But then she considered how ready most dogs were to appease authority. A leader needed to know when to compromise and when to fight, both intellectually and physically. A physical fight enlivened Sneaky; it focused her. You won or lost. The mouth battles never felt finished. Even if humans recognized how much Sneaky Pie had to offer them—in wisdom and experience—she couldn’t imagine herself on a podium just going “blab blab blab.” She didn’t think those other candidates believed half of what they said, but when there were so many different types of people to woo, maybe the primary skill of a politician is being a convincing liar. The ability to effectively simulate sincerity might be the most important quality for a politician. She knew she couldn’t fake it. She wasn’t as indiscreet as Tally or as puffed up as Pewter. Sneaky called it as she saw it. An honest cat. Every time she thought of Pewter claiming to be descended from Bolling blood and therefore Pocahontas, she had to laugh. Poor Princess Poke. Married a good man, was carried to a strange land, died young.

Obviously Pewter was not going to die young, despite her genetics. Pewter crested ten and fudged about her age. Why, Sneaky had no idea. She herself was a mature cat, fourteen by her count, beyond the wildness of youth, although she could still chase a butterfly.

There was a rustle overhead; then the light click of claws grasping a beam caused her to lift her head to see.

“Any luck?” she called to the barn owl, who hooted back.

“Good hunting tonight. Usually is at the edge of a front. Everybody’s out getting food before the rains, although the rains are far off.” The owl fluffed her feathers, then smoothed them down. “Heard you’re causing a lot of talk.”

“I guess.”

“It’s an interesting quest you’ve embarked upon, a difficult one. But I fear our time may have passed.”

“What do you mean?” Sneaky climbed up the ladder, walked across the hayloft, stopped by the beam over the center aisle, where the owl perched.

“I’m thinking of the gods and goddesses. When people worshipped them, they also worshipped us because each god and goddess had an animal sacred to them. We were sacred to Athena. Hounds and deer attended Artemis. Every god or goddess had an animal friend. But now all that is gone: We’ve lost our mythological importance.”

“Well, the bald eagle is the symbol of the United States.”

“And I am tired of hearing about it,” hooted the owl. “Those two eagles on the Rockfish River are conceited beyond belief. What do they do? Sit in trees and catch fish. There’s no reason they should be the symbol of this country.”

“Perhaps.” Sneaky, naturally, thought a cat much better suited to the role. She imagined her face on a dollar bill.

“Now, if the humans had more sensibly selected an owl as their national symbol, they would be blessed by wisdom. But no, they chose a fish killer.” The barn owl let out a hoot of derision.

“It is strange,” said Sneaky. “France has a rooster, England a bulldog, Russia a bear. So those people around the globe at least pay some attention to animals.”

“Oh, pussycat, they haven’t a clue. Although I do think the cock for France is just about perfect.” He chortled.

“Lions, leopards, tigers, wolves, boars—even pelicans were used on shields.” Sneaky liked the books on medieval life that her C.O. read incessantly.

“That was all a long time ago,” said the owl sorrowfully. “No, they have forgotten what they owe us, the courage and guidance we once gave them.”

“That’s why I am mounting my campaign: to restore good sense and dignity across all species.”

“I admire your grit. Don’t know much about your sense,” the owl said.

Sneaky took no offense. “We all know the Declaration of Independence. Even foxes know that.”

“Yes.”

“ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.’ ”

The owl, in his sonorous voice, recited, “ ‘That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed—That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government—’ ”

The two fell silent for a moment, then the tiger cat said, “The Declaration applies to us, too.”

“Oh, it’s about people , always people —and for that matter, it was only about white men.” The owl half closed his golden eyes for a moment.

“You’re right. As amazing as Mr. Jefferson was, he was a creature of his time. Just as we are creatures of our time.” Sneaky never failed to defend the long-dead redhead.

“True.”

“Were he with us today, he would see things a bit differently.”

“For one thing, Mr. Jefferson wouldn’t write the Declaration of Independence, he’d text it.” The owl laughed loudly.

“Oh, dear.” The cat grimaced. “Here’s what I think: He owned slaves, he owned animals, he liked cats—but I will set that aside for now. He sort of liked women, and he sort of didn’t. I mean, he loved his wife, lied about his mistress, both here and in Europe, but he thought women were lesser creatures. He didn’t believe they should vote or participate in public life.”

The owl blinked. “There are still people who own slaves in the world today and parts of the world where women are chattel.”

“It’s horrible, but the mistreatment of us is horrible, too.” The cat drew closer to the beam. “If Mr. Jefferson really were alive today, I’m quite sure he would consider women, African Americans, and animals differently.”

“I should hope to holler.” The owl used the old Southern expression.

“So we must continue his work for him. Take his noble ideas into the twenty-first century. This country is not ruled by the consent of the governed. Heretofore, we animals have had no voice.”

This oration so moved the owl that he turned his head nearly upside down, then back up again. “You’re right!”

“We need a voice!” said Sneaky. “I speak for those who haven’t been heard from.”

“Sneaky.” The owl called the cat by her Christian name. “I admire your passion. I think you are right, but I don’t know how you can expect to reach people. They all live in bubbles. For some, it’s a rich bubble of consumerism; for others, it’s a miserable bubble of poverty and pain.”

“I know. I can’t say I’ve entirely worked out my outreach strategy yet. Another problem is that I don’t have any money. The Republican candidates have already blown millions, and the president will squander millions upon millions to get reelected. The estimates on what the campaign eventually will cost are over one billion dollars.”