Рита Браун - Whisker Of Evil

Simon, the possum, shuffled out of the tack room as Mrs. Murphy entered the center aisle.

“Tootsie Rolls.” He triumphantly chewed on the delicacy.

“You’re as bad as Mom. How can you eat that sugary junk?” Mrs. Murphy preferred—craved—meat, raw or cooked, although occasionally she would eat the tender tip of asparagus.

“It’s so-o-o good.” His eyes closed in gustatory pleasure.

The sounds of merriment floated out from the tack room. Mrs. Murphy’s pupils now expanded to give her a terrifying appearance. She tore into the tack room. A convention of mice played with Tootsie Roll wrappers and bits of grain.

Screaming, they scurried for their hole, cleverly hidden behind a small aluminum tack trunk.

“Mass murderer!”

Mrs. Murphy growled at their opening, “Death to all mice!” She sat down and in a more reasonable tone instructed, “Now, listen, you worthless mammals. You promised me you wouldn’t make messes here or in the feed room. Look at this. This is shameful. I’m going to have to kill a few of you and leave your corpses on Harry’s desk here. Otherwise, I’ll be out of a job.”

“You surprised us,” answered the head mouse, Arthur. “We always clean up. And furthermore, we didn’t throw the wrappers around. Simon did.”

“I did,” Simon confessed as he joined the tiger cat. “But I don’t have to clean up, because the mice do it. Anyway, I leave some Tootsie Rolls. I keep up the deal.”

Excited chatter wafted out from behind the tack trunk. A little nose stuck out, tiny black whiskers swept forward, followed by a pair of jet-black eyes. Arthur, an older fellow, spoke. “Mrs. Murphy, there won’t be one wrapper on the floor tomorrow morning, nor will there be a single kernel of grain. Not one.”

“You can start cleaning now.”

He looked up at the beautiful cat staring down at him. “What do you take me for? A perfect fool?”

“I’ve kept my end of the bargain,” Mrs. Murphy protested her innocence.

“That’s true. You haven’t killed one of us in years, but you’ve wreaked havoc among the field mice. If their population drops, you’ll be in here slaughtering us.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen.” She feigned indifference, then with lightning reflexes swept her paw down and snagged Arthur, hauling him up on the tack trunk. “Worm.”

Although terrified, he wasn’t going to beg for his life. Great consternation could be heard from behind the walls.

Simon, not much for killing since he preferred sweets and grain, opened his mouth. Only a squeak escaped.

Mrs. Murphy cackled with glee.

Arthur’s wife, a plump little mouse, hopped up on the tack trunk. “If he’s going, I’m going!”

“Martha, think of the children,” he pleaded.

“You have so many of them, which brings me to my next demand. Slow down, will you? If there are too many relatives here, I’m going to have to cut down the numbers. Harry doesn’t have the money to feed every mouse in the county. My job is to see that she doesn’t waste money feeding the likes of you. You get the gleanings, but show some sense.”

Martha defiantly scolded, “We do not breed beyond the food supply. That’s more than I can say for humans!”

“Harry is the exception that proves the rule.” Arthur hoped to soften Martha’s words, as Mrs. Murphy fiercely loved Harry.

Mrs. Murphy batted Arthur with her other paw. Martha valiantly charged the larger predator.

“You bully!”

That fast, Mrs. Murphy pinned down Martha. To her great satisfaction she had a mouse underneath each paw. “I’ll let you go if you promise a complete cleanup, including the dust balls behind this tack trunk. I don’t care if you made them or not.”

“Agreed.” Arthur wriggled.

“No more babies this year, and no chewing tack!”

“We have never chewed tack!” Martha, indignant, spat.

“See that your good behavior continues.” Mrs. Murphy swatted them off the tack trunk like two hockey pucks. Then she left, Simon waddling after her.

“You are so fast. I don’t think there’s another creature as fast as yourself that isn’t in the cat family.” The gray possum with his hairless pink tail was anything but quick.

“Foxes are fast, but we hunt the same game. That’s why we don’t get along.”

“There’s plenty for everyone.”

“Now. But in bad years we have to fight for our territory.”

“But, Murphy, you don’t need a hunting range. You have good food in the house and at work, too.”

“It’s a matter of principle.” Mrs. Murphy walked out onto the pea-rock drive.

“Where are you going?”

“To the fox’s den.”

“Oh, is there going to be a fight? I don’t want to get in a fight.”

“Simon, go eat your Tootsie Rolls and make sure those mice get to work.” Mrs. Murphy burst into a flat-out run from a standstill.

Simon watched. He wished he could do that. Any human with that ability would be signed as a halfback by a professional football team for millions of dollars. Of course, Mrs. Murphy would still outrun the player.

The cat ran for the sheer joy of running. Her long, fluid strides covered the ground, her paws barely touching the slick grass. Within five minutes she stood outside the fox den, secure in the stone base ruins of what had been the old spring house.

Since gray foxes keep a modest entrance, the large mound in front of the den announced the presence of the red fox.

The vixen, with characteristic intelligence, had selected a den on high ground, secure from the weather and within a leisurely walk to the strong-running creek dividing Blair Bainbridge’s and Harry’s property. This was the west side of Harry’s property. A family of gray foxes lived near the eastern boundary, so the two types of foxes rarely conversed and never competed against each other. It was a good working arrangement.

A young cub peeped out at Mrs. Murphy. “Momma, a tiger!”

Mrs. Murphy laughed to herself, then called out, “It’s Mrs. Murphy.”

The sleek vixen, shedding her undercoat, came outside. Four little red heads popped up to listen, their luminous eyes wide in wonder at this exotic, striped creature.

“How are you?” The vixen minded her manners.

“Well, and yourself?”

“Healthy, thank you.”

Mrs. Murphy used to spit and fuss whenever a fox was near, until one cold night years back, when a bloodthirsty bobcat had come down off the mountain since game was scarce. This terror chased Mrs. Murphy, and the cat only escaped death thanks to this fox den. Even Tucker had ducked in, squeezing herself next to the fox. That night she was as close to a bobcat as Mrs. Murphy ever wanted to be. Since the truce was in effect, Mrs. Murphy dutifully informed both the reds and the grays when the hunt club would be leaving from Harry’s farm. This usually happened twice during hunt season, mid-September to mid-March. The foxes could decide whether to give the hounds a run for their money or to snooze inside.

“I was wondering if you’d heard any reports of rabies among the foxes?”

The vixen shook her head. “No. Oh, Lord, I hope another epidemic isn’t sweeping over us. It’s been a good time. No mange or rabies.” She cast a fearful eye at her children.