By Anne Sullivan
Sylvia scratched on the screen door indicating a desire for her mid-afternoon biscuit. When I opened the door, she drooped in, wandering slowly over to the kitchen.
“How did it go?” I asked, half-afraid to hear the answer.
“Touch and go,” Sylvia said, sitting down in front of her dish. “Today was my day to talk to all the Swingle Canyon mice to recruit them as wagon pullers. Well, less than 50 percent of them came to the meeting. It’s very discouraging.”
“I’ll bet it is. Why did so many of them stay away?”
“Their children wouldn’t let them come. They were afraid my talk was going to be political.”
“That’s a doggone shame. Don’t they realize you intended to pay for labor?”
“They scarcely gave me a chance to explain my case. I intended to tell them about the virtues of honest labor. They squeaked me down.”
“How awful,” I commiserated. “Did any of the mice sign up?”
“A few really old ones did. They remember the old days and the depression, when having a job was really important but the younger adults are so used to having everything handed to them by the government that they turned up their noses at the idea of doing honest work and –“
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “What government subsidizes them? Surely not the Swingle Canyon Big Three government.”
“Oh, no. RingWorm, Gordo and me, we don’t support them.”
“And I,” I corrected.
“Oh, I didn’t know you wanted to join us.”
“No, no. I’m trying to correct your grammar.”
“Oh, well, as I was saying, the mice have their own form of government. They have a kind of Congress that squabbles constantly, so much so that they’re unable to get anything done. They have no infrastructure. That’s why they’re forced to enter our structures for shelter and food.”
“I’m not forcing them to enter our structure in any way,” I said through gritted teeth. “Don’t they see that they’re fighting a losing battle – at least I hope that’s the case. I killed three in one day with the sticky traps and goodness only knows how many have succumbed to DeCon. At this rate they should be gone soon.”
“Don’t be too sure. They have unlimited reinforcements and they’re kind of like the Taliban in that they’re extremely brave and they’ll stop at nothing.”
“I suppose that’s why they’re picking on our family. They have no respect for females.”
“I suppose so,” Sylvia said. “I wonder…”
“Wonder what?” I asked, handing her a Meaty Bone biscuit.
“Maybe Gordo could do something. He’s our only male,” she said, chomping on her biscuit.
“Yes, but he’s crazed.”
“That might be just what they’d like,” she pointed out. “If Gordo could infiltrate their ranks, he could sway them to see things our way so that they’re bound to report for work in huge numbers.”
“You’ll need huge numbers of mice to pull that wagon, especially when it’s full of all the gold you find. That is, if you find any gold at all.”
“Of course there’s gold and of course we’ll find it. Gordo will work wonders with the mice.”
“But Gordo’s a cat. A large cat. Don’t you think the mice will notice?”
Sylvia was not to be deterred. “We’ll have to disguise him as a mouse, that’s all. His size is bound to impress them.”
“Do you really think he’ll accept such a dangerous mission?”
“He’s sure to,” said Sylvia. “He’s got all the qualifications of stupidity.”
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