Martin Greenberg - Catopolis

“No sir. Birds.”

Birds?

Crinkling paper caught my attention as an old tabby curled up in a nest of rags and newspaper perked his ears. With his patchy fur set against the muddled shade of the municipal buildings, I hadn’t noticed him before.

Wish we could get more of these alley cats off the streets and into good homes. If I get elected…

I couldn’t think about that yet. I had to get the office first, which meant dealing with the birds right now, whatever they were up to.

“They’ve surrounded the Chief Elections Officer and are holding up the vote,” Diefenbaker continued, his gold eyes wide.

I sighed. It wasn’t easy to plan an E-Day. Picking a time when few humans would notice the absence of their “pets,” or the rise in the numbers of felines crossing the city as they hitched rides to their polling locations, was a struggle at the best of times. If protesters were up in paws, or claws, we’d never be able to keep our activity from the other communities at large. Someone would notice. Someone would start asking hard questions.

“What’s Whittington doing?” I asked, knowing my fellow candidate would be taking advantage of the situation in any way possible.

“He’s already speaking to them, telling the leader that when he gets reelected, he’ll be sure to bring their concerns to the City Council. That if they let the voters through to the polls, he’ll make certain they get a chance to plead their case.”

“And do the protesters believe him?”

“No, sir,” Diefenbaker grinned. “As one put it, ‘You’re a great talker. Too bad you’re not so great at keeping promises. ’ ”

Good. At least they won’t be using him as leverage.

This protest could not have come at a worse time. If the votes didn’t get through and counted, the election would be discounted and postponed until next year. It would take that long to set up another ballot and get the word around.

Maybe I shouldn’t have put all my catnip in the same place. I’ll never keep my secret another year…

I swept my tongue over my chest, thinking. A hollow ache tugged at my stomach, reminding me of lunch. I hadn’t eaten all day, what with making last minute cat-calls to influential voters.

Birds. Most cats considered them fair game, especially the ferals, who had no steady food source. I’d even chased them a time or two, all in good fun. But I’d never hurt one intentionally.

Now Whittington… I could easily imagine him pulling a bird out of the sky. I glanced up at the rainbow, still a shimmering arc against the blue. Soon flowers would bring a similar spread of colors to the forest, and the pedigreed and wealthy upper class would make for their country vacation homes. Whittington’s ilk liked to hunt. When the summer came, they’d all be out chasing birds with vigor.

That’s it! Banning the annual bird hunts-now that was something I could promise that Whittington never would.

It’s a sport of the wealthy anyway. Most cats disliked the hunts almost as much as I did. There was a huge difference between chasing for fun and killing for sport, after all.

If I promised to ban them, there were sure to be rumors. Jennings and every one of his newshounds would be out for blood. My blood.

No wonder the news has gone to the dogs. No cat in his right mind would lose his sense of objectivity like that.

But it wasn’t the first day of the election contest. It was E-Day, the final day. Surely, I could hold the hounds off long enough for the vote to be counted.

Banning the hunts could be enough to slip me past Whittington…

Turning toward Diefenbaker, I neatened my fur again. “I’ll have to put in an appearance. We have to get the protesters to move. If the humans notice, there’ll be more publicity than any of us want.”

“What are you going to do?” my aide asked, his nose coming up as if to scent my response.

“I’ll go down there myself. Go give my regrets at our lunch engagement, then meet me there. I want to get the lay of the land before I make my final decision. I think we can offer something worth making voters back us…”

“You shouldn’t go alone, sir. What if they notice you?”

I flexed my front claws against the stone wall, this time with purpose. “Do you think they will if I want it otherwise?”

Getting to the site of the protest meant winding around the few humans collecting in front of City Hall. At least whatever they were doing with their loud music made an excellent distraction. I pressed on.

Maybe they won’t notice the birds, I hoped.

The central voting booths were along the canal just in front of the university. It was always a quiet place in the early spring, making it perfect for our needs. Humans biked or jogged along the waterway; they didn’t linger as they did in the height of summer. It was a safe place for voting. Or it would have been if birds weren’t trying to attract attention. Hiding the voters bringing mouse ballots was bad enough; hiding flying protestors, especially vocal ones, would be impossible.

At least everyone’s eyes would be on the protesters.

The hounds won’t be after me right away.

And while my silvery coat might look distinguished in the municipal chambers, down here I’d pass as a mottled gray street cat, at least as long as no one got close enough to read my collar.

There were more birds than even I could have imagined.

As I came out of the line of trees cutting between the heart of the city and the river, my eyes caught on the hundreds-no, thousands-of pigeons swarming our voting station, a rough-cut stone building. The canal hadn’t been used commercially in over a decade, so the wheelhouse was perfect for our purpose. Central, yet unnoticed.

No hope of that, now.

On the other side of the thin iron walkway crossing the canal, a crowd of newshounds barked questions at birds sitting on the fence behind the wheelhouse even as McClung, a Persian and the Chief Elections Officer, also tried to bring calm to the chaos. On my side of the canal, a hundred cats lined the water, several playing with their ballots while they waited. One fat calico appeared calm and contented as she watched the flight of birds overhead, a thin tail dangling out the side of her mouth.

Knew there’d be a problem with edible ballots. Tried to tell them.

As I padded down the incline toward the voters, a young vote counter on the other side of the canal snapped at a passing pigeon, capturing a mouthful of white and gray feathers. A loud squawk filled the air as the indignant bird broke away.

“You’re an official. Act like one!” McClung scolded the youngster, her ire apparent. If anyone could settle this crowd, it was the Chief Elections Officer. She hated inequitable treatment, even of birds.

“Please, this is no time for arguments. You know that the votes must be counted today or there will be no hope for an election for at least another year.” That was Whittington’s silky voice. “Do not judge the future until the mice have been counted. This public display is unconscionable.” I found him tucked right in the middle of the newshounds.

Of course. Fat cat can’t help seeking the limelight.

“They’ll learn. Learn when they see this ruckus. You cats will be stopped. Stopped. One way or another.” The bird that spoke was fog-colored and speckled, with one wing a dull brown. An ugly thing, no wonder he looked confident as he settled down on the fence right next to Whittington. No pedigreed cat in his right mind would be interested in taking him out, not unless he wanted a bad case of indigestion, and scorn from his companions at nabbing the ugliest member of the flock.

“Why doesn’t everybody just leave the birds alone?” a nearby voter said. “It’s not as if most of us need to fend for ourselves. Not even alley cats go for fresh pigeon, unless they’re starving.”