Рита Браун - Sneaky Pie For President

The corgi’s eyes shone in the moonlight.

“Treatment plants,” Tally piped up.

“Have you ever gone by one of those plants?” Pewter wrinkled her nose.

“Of course not,” twittered the wren. “I have better things to do with my time.” She tossed her little head.

“Well, in the New World Order, you will be found guilty of littering just for doing your business naturally. Spreading germs, they’ll say. And I don’t think humans will invent toilets for birds,” Pewter said.

A disconcerted twitter followed this. “Heaven forbid! You’re scaring me. You’re trying to get me to fall out of my nest.”

Pewter—at the base of the tree, voice so sweet—called up, “We know better than that.”

“I’m asking you to think about the rest of us taking over this country. We outnumber the humans,” Sneaky encouraged the wren.

“You plan to seize power by brute force?” the wren asked, snapping her beak shut nervously.

“Absolutely not. We’re nonviolent. We need to vote,” Sneaky said.

“I can’t vote. I can’t write.”

“You can hold a pencil in your claws and make an X. And we can all overrun the polls. I believe we can get this country back on track and protect ourselves. You know.” Sneaky sat for a moment. “It will save them, too.”

“You might have something there,” the wren said breezily.

“While you think about it, and there’s no big rush, I’ll be back up here in a month, as Mom comes to meetings here once a month,” said Sneaky.

“Do you really consider a human a mother?” The wren leaned farther over her nest, which just made Pewter tense all her muscles. There really were muscles under the lard.

“Well, the four of us call her the Can Opener, the C.O., but we love her, and she does care for us. And we don’t remember our real mothers,” Sneaky replied.

“That’s so sad. My little chicks know who their mother is.”

“Have any?”

“Not this year. My friends and I keep an eye on the food supply. Maybe next year. I love having little wrens.”

“We’re trying to get into the house, but the passage we knew under Mr. Jefferson’s bedroom window has been filled up. Is there another way?” Sneaky asked.

“Sure. Go up through the old larder. The opening is big enough, easy.”

“How do you get in?” Pewter asked, as though this was mere curiosity.

“Usually we don’t. Causes such a fuss. But in good weather, if I need to, I’ll go right through an open window. There’s always a thread loose or something else I can use to spruce up my nest.”

Sneaky headed toward the brick walkways as instructed. “Thank you.”

“It’s nice to think that Monticello still has some uses. A thread from a chair would be very nice.” Tally liked chewing things, and silk or satin was a rare treat.

“ ’Tis,” Tucker agreed.

In the old larder, they found the opening, a gap behind a back shelf.

“I can’t see.” Tally coughed as she squeezed into the space, careful not to knock over crockery. Fortunately, it was heavy.

“Stick right behind Pewter,” ordered Sneaky, from outside.

“Just what I want, Tally on my rear end,” Pewter complained.

“Oh, Pewter, shut up,” the diminutive dog snapped back. “You can see better in the dark than I can.”

“I can’t fit,” Tucker half boasted as she tried to squeeze in.

Sneaky took a quick look around. “Stay here and guard us.”

“I’ll miss all the fun,” the corgi whined.

“We won’t be long,” Sneaky promised her.

And it wasn’t long before they emerged from under the bed in Monticello’s little front bedroom.

“Come on,” ordered Sneaky. “We’ve no time to waste, gawking at old furniture.”

The tiger cat hurried across the polished floors ahead of Pewter and Tally, past the Great Clock, powered by heavy cylinder-like weights descending through a hole in the floor into the cellar. The beautiful dining room had been rehabilitated, thanks to a gift from Ralph Lauren for which the famous designer asked no advertising. He just did it because he loved Monticello. Just behind this room, the small party found a wooden door, its handle just out of reach.

“Stand here and stand still,” Sneaky ordered Tally before climbing on the dog’s back, reaching up, and easily turning the old doorknob. “Onward,” the cat ordered.

The back stairway reverberated with four beats each for the two cats and the dog. They came up to the Dome Room, empty but for gleaming moonlight streaming through the large circular windows and oculus skylight.

A walkway surrounded Jefferson’s famous dome. Doors at intervals allowed workmen to get to the dome itself for repairs—fixing leaks, mostly. At the bottom of each door was an opening, just about cat size. The two cats zipped in, and Tally, a bit bigger, squeezed through.

Four busy mice stopped cold in their tracks.

The boldest shouted, “You get out of here!”

The tiger cat challenged them: “You aren’t supposed to be here, either.”

“We are descendants of Mr. Jefferson’s mice. Who else would be here?” The big mouse took a precautionary step backward.

“Well, we are FFV, First Felines of Virginia,” countered Sneaky, “so we have every right to be here. And Pewter here is descended from a Bolling who married Mr. Jefferson’s daughter. If indeed you are descended from Mr. Jefferson’s mice, you know perfectly well about the marriage to John Bolling, a fat fellow who drank too much. So there.”

This caused a moment of confusion.

The smallest mouse piped up. “There haven’t been cats up here in forever.”

“That’s obvious.” Pewter could smell all the mice and see the little treasures they’d dropped around their mouse holes.

“So why are you here? Don’t think you’re about to have any mousy treats. We’re close to our escape routes; you can’t catch us,” the big mouse defiantly pronounced.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Sneaky declared.

“Speak for yourself,” Pewter muttered under her breath.

Tally whispered, “Pewter, don’t piss Sneaky off. We have to ride all the way back home, remember?”

“Well, what do you want?” demanded the biggest mouse.

“I want you and all the mice here to help me run for president.”

“A cat for president?” The little mouse lifted up on his hind legs, putting his front paws together in delight. “You’re even stupider than I thought. Who would want to be president, much less a cat? Isn’t it all just a wee bit far-fetched?”

“Far-fetched, maybe, but it was far-fetched to think we could break free from England,” said Sneaky, “and who would have thought that the skinny redhead who wrote the Declaration and served as Virginia’s governor—working on all manner of things—would wind up president? I mean, everyone knew General Washington would be president, but, well, Jefferson had to fight for it when his time came. Just as we’ll fight for it now.”

“Why ever bother? Mr. Jefferson didn’t much like being president.” The smallest mouse uttered this with pride. “It’s not even on his grave monument, which he designed.”

“He said he didn’t like being president.” Pewter thought all that denial suspicious. “But he pressed on, didn’t he?”

“Once you’re in the traces, how do you cut them?” The middle mouse, also a bit fat, chimed in: “He was stuck.”

“He was vain.” Tally finally spoke to the mice. “Humans all think they can make such a big difference. Time washes all their so-called accomplishments away.”

“Not Mr. Jefferson’s work,” Sneaky corrected her friend. “Think of all that he wrote. And he sent Lewis and Clark on their way. And what about the 1803 Louisiana Purchase? Then again, maybe you’re right, Mr. Mouse, he couldn’t kick over the traces. I might be vain, Tally might be right, but at least my vanity serves you all. We have little choice but to stop the madness.”