Martin Greenberg - Catopolis

“That’s because those pigeons have helped the strays more than the politicos ever have,” an elder cat big enough to be part Maine Coon responded. “Always on the lookout for fresh fish. I’ve heard they worked out a deal.”

“Good for them. It’s not like the fat cats will ever do anything.”

“Maybe Churchill’ll bring change-I have a feeling about him.” My ears pricked. This time it was a cat further down the line.

“A bit quiet-doesn’t seem the type to rock the boat,” another said.

“I…” My voice trailed off before I could gain their attention. They didn’t understand. I wanted to change things. I wanted to get the alley cats off the streets. I wanted to ensure all cats could get medical attention. I wanted to make a difference.

I needed to.

I knew until the election was over, I couldn’t give the newshounds something to fight over. I had to act the pedigreed cat, the one who won votes just by existing. Any hint of controversy…

But if what they all want change? What if they want someone who will speak up?

Maybe the real voters were interested in something more than posturing.

Maybe they wanted to know what I thought, too.

It was a strange notion, and one I immediately cast aside. The moment I voiced my thoughts, I’d give myself away. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t. I was close to winning. At the last poll, Whittington and I had been neck and neck.

Did I want to stir up trouble?

I’m better off just seeing where the ball bounces. It’s too close. These couple of hundred voters standing right here could be the tipping point.

No. I couldn’t do it.

Once I was mayor-then- then I could start being honest.

“Please. Do we need another year of campaigning? Nothing will get done if you do not let the votes get through. I promise I will do what I can.”

As Whittington continued his appeal, I noticed Diefenbaker coming up behind the newshounds. Birds fluttered backward upon sight of my campaign manager. They would know I was close.

Bet they’re looking forward to it, too.

Two candidates facing off at a polling station would be the day’s top story.

Before the results are in, anyway.

“And where do you sit?” Jennings questioned Diefenbaker. The newshound would sniff the truth out in no time given the chance. He had an excellent nose.

Can’t give him the time.

“The other candidate doesn’t even see this as a priority, or he’d be here himself. Unlike if I win. If I win, I promise I will do what I can,” Whittington said, pushing between the beagle and Diefenbaker.

That was my cue.

“Do what you can?” I said, slipping between the cats I had overheard and padding my way to the walk overlooking the canal. I ignored the yowls of surprise as I passed. “Does that include discontinuing your own practice of hunting when you’re off at your summer house near Central Park?”

Whittington wasn’t going to stop hunting the birds; it was a truth I knew from three years serving together on council. Maybe I could make this about him and not have to choose sides at all.

“If you got in, you’d drag your paws all winter long waffling over the issue, maybe set up a commission to study the matter further, and then be right back hunting in summer,” I accused.

“I keep my word,” my competition said, tilting his head so he could meet the eyes of some of the voters. His long black coat sparkled with an elegance I didn’t have.

“So why are we even here? If you’d kept your promises, the birds wouldn’t have any issues, would they?”

It was as if we were back in the council chambers, with the canal serving the purpose of the Speaker.

“Well, Churchill, all you do is run for office by complaining about my policies. The voters don’t even know what you stand for.”

Anger burned in my stomach as every voter’s eyes focused on me. I could feel the accusations there. They were agreeing with Whittington.

Have I been too quiet? Too complacent?

By hiding my lack of pedigree, have I hidden all my dreams also?

The uncertainty made me pause, whiskers trying to feel out the position of those watching and coming up short. If I wasn’t honest, I still had hope. I could force the argument back toward Whittington. I’d lose a few votes, but I’d still be in the game.

If I told the truth, I could be slaughtered.

The moment stretched as I peered at Diefenbaker, visible beyond Whittington’s small frame. What would he want me to do? His stance gave away nothing, no hint of worry.

He trusts me.

Maybe he was the only one who did. No one else gave off that innate feeling of trust. If anything, most of the voters appeared resigned, as if they were waiting for me to dodge the argument.

I had a passion to make a difference in the world-and the voters didn’t expect me to do a darned thing.

It shattered my calm.

“I can promise I’ve never been on a bird hunt.” As I spoke the words, the mice skittering around in my stomach finally calmed.

I jumped on to the iron walkway crossing the canal, finally feeling free to speak my mind.

“I can promise that when I’m elected, I’ll ban such hunts.” It was a promise no pedigreed cat would make. “If we work together, we can see change happen. Work with our neighbors instead of against them. There’s enough food and shelter for all, if we’d just join together to find it. We can make this world a better place-one where strays have a place to call home, pigeons can be safe in the park, and the dogs battle boredom by pulling on tuggers and chasing balls. A world where fresh blood isn’t chased down and ripped apart.”

At that, Jennings let out a bark of laughter.

“You think I’m joking?” I asked.

“If you’re voted in, you’ll be lucky to change the color of your collar,” Whittington said, leaping on to the walkway, so he didn’t have to look up at me. He stuck his wet nose in my face. “What have you said the last month that has meant anything? You think making meaningless promises now will make a difference? No one knows what you really want.”

“I thought people knew,” I whispered, more to myself than to anyone.

Whittington wasn’t a bad politician. The election would be easier for me to win if he was. But he was of the old school and wasn’t about to change his beliefs. Other cats seemed to instinctively know that about him and thought I was the same. I had to prove I was different.

“Spokespigeon, can you come down here?” I called, finding the distinctive bird in the flock.

After a moment, the bird descended, finding a spot on the rail just out of both Whittington’s paw reach and my own.

“I don’t go to the hunting parties,” I claimed. “I never have, and I never will.” The words were an admission, though the bird wouldn’t know why.

Jennings came up the steps of the canal without any of a cat’s grace and with all the confidence of a dog chasing after a bone. He let out a bark as he made the walkway and joined the mix.

“Never? Why is that?” he demanded.

I knew the dog could smell the truth, and I gave it to him, knowing there was no hope of keeping my secret now. It was as though someone had let me out of a bag. I was free.

I met Whittington’s level green eyes for a moment, then turned to Jennings. “I’d never condone such a thing.”

The beagle let out a soulful sigh, full of dawning understanding. I thought I knew what he was going to say next. For a long moment I waited, my heart going to stone.

This is it. The end of my career.

But for once, the dog was silent.

Whittington wasn’t. “You’re nothing but a mutt, aren’t you-

Whisker McTailzo?” he spat, using one of the worst forms of address another cat could offer: my human name.