Fighting Tom (Jerry the Kat series), Page 2

  “I heard about you and the maze. We don’t tolerate cheaters here. Just watch yourself?” a deep-throated snarl came from behind me.

  I jumped straight up and my fur bristled. I hadn’t heard the cat’s approach. Startled, I turned and saw a leopard staring back at me. My back arched, I hissed, and then began backing away from the wild animal.

  “Last, but certainly not least, this is Kipling,” finished the sergeant as she introduced the wild cat to me.

  Kipling. Kipling. Where had I heard that name before? Oh no. This must be General McDoodle’s Bengal cat. My days with Fighting Tom Bravo Company looked like they would be more challenging than I’d thought.

  Chapter 5 -- Fleas! I don’t have no stinking fleas!

  “Okay, cats, let’s go,” commanded Sergeant Barnhard.

  With Kipling leading the way, we all, well almost all of us, followed the sergeant through a set of double doors into a tiled room.

  Sergeant Barnhard gathered us together around a long bench where a man and woman dressed in olive green coveralls sat. “. . . six, seven, eight. Now who are we missing?” she asked.

  “No Legs and Archangel,” meowed Kipling in reply.

  What a tattletale, I thought to myself.

  “Hmmm, it looks like Blackberry and Archangel must still be in the other room. Why don’t you get started with the cats here,” she instructed.

  “Wow, boy, you need to go on a diet,” the man said as he scooped Ginger Jam up and took him to the bench. There he began brushing and combing the calico cat while the woman fussed around looking in Ginger Jam’s ears and mouth.

  “This one’s clean,” the man commented as he put the brush down, picked up the hefty feline, and plopped him down inside a fenced enclosure at the far end of the room.

  Oslo, who I later learned was a purebred, Norwegian forest cat, was next. He purred the entire time the humans brushed his fur.

  The man and woman worked their way through the cats, inspecting and brushing each one until they got to Harley.

  “Oops, this one has fleas,” remarked the woman as she placed the grooming brush in a pail. Harley didn’t make it to the cat enclosure, instead he found himself deposited into what looked like a large dog crate. The crate had four walls, a floor, but was open on top.

  Then it was my turn. The woman was amazingly gentle as she brushed through my fur. I couldn’t help purring, the brushing felt so good. At least it felt good until I heard her say, “Oops, another one with fleas.”

  “Fleas!” I hissed.

  “I don’t have fleas. There must be some mistake. I’m a very clean and cultured house cat. I don’t have fleas, ticks, bedbugs, or mites. You are mistaken.” I kept up a steady stream of meows trying to explain myself only to have the silly humans shove me into the crate with Harley.

  “Hey, old chap. Stop fussing so much. Fleas are nothing to be ashamed of. It’s the hallmark of an outdoor cat. Those other namby pambies are pure breeds. Poor things have lived most of their lives indoors. They haven’t seen the world like we have! Just keep your fur on and relax, old boy,” said Harley.

  I hadn’t noticed it before, but Harley had a British meow.

  “Now I remember going with the 39th Signal Regiment in Iraq. We had to worry about more than just fleas on that mission. They were a good group of chaps. I kept our area free from rats. And let me tell you, the rats over there were mammoth-sized. That’s when I lost the paw,” he added as he held up his shortened leg. “Blown right off. My mates rushed me right to their human surgeon. Saved my life, I’m sure. That’s how I ended up here. I’ve got the Army experience even if I can’t serve any longer on the front line.”

  Just about that time, White Paws joined us in the oversized crate.

  I could hear but not see Sergeant Barnhard talking to the others and then felt the crate lift off the ground.

  “Private Thompson, take those three to Doc. When you’re done, bring them on back to the barracks,” she instructed.

  “Yes, Sarge,” Thompson replied as he grunted under the weight. The box lurched back and forth throwing us against its walls and back into each other. “Humph! Thank heavens that fat old ginger cat is not in here. This crate already weighs a ton.”

  “Please don’t drop us. Please don’t drop us,” I meowed as we continued to lurch back and forth.

  “Hey, Doc, got three flea bitten patients for you,” hollered Thompson has he landed the crate with a thud on the floor.

  “Well, what have we here?” The face at the cage door matched the soothing voice. Doc’s blue eyes sparkled and her smile set my mind at ease. She reached in, and scooped up Harley.

  “Well, old boy. I’ve already heard about your exploits. You are something of a legend around here. We had to promise your army unit to take extra special care of you! They tell me you saved a young soldier – prevented him from stepping on a land mine. Yup! You’re quite the cat.”

  “You look healthy. Don’t worry. With a quick bath and a little medicine behind your ears, those fleas will be history.”

  White Paws and I could hear the sound of splashing water, but never a meow out of Harley -- that’s one tough cat. Soon we saw a slightly damp Harley strolling across the countertops above us. Doc then scooped up White Paws.

  Harley sidled alongside the crate. “Hey, Jerry. Don’t worry. The Doc, well she’s really nice. The bath isn’t so bad. The towels she used to dry me we’re even heated!”

  Bath!

  I couldn’t help myself. I started shaking and my fur bristled.

  “Blimey! Is that cat purring?” Harley asked. Caught by surprise, I stopped shaking and we both strained to hear the sounds coming from the tub of water in the corner of the clinic.

  Sure enough, a very loud and steady purr rose above the soothing voice of the vet.

  “Well, my sainted aunt! I’ve never heard of a cat liking a bath before. Takes all kinds, I guess,” Harley commented.

  When it was my turn for a bath, I did not purr!

  Chapter 6 -- Barracks Life

  Bravo Company’s “barracks” was little more than a square room in the back corner of the huge building. Each cat had his own bed built on top a two-foot tall cat tree. Four litter boxes lined one wall. Adequate, but I really hate sharing a litter box!

  By the time White Paws, Harley and I rejoined our group, the only three cat trees left were back near the litter boxes. Oh well, what’s a cat to do?

  “About time you flea-bitten recruits joined us,” snapped Kipling. “I’ve already instructed the new recruits on the barrack rules. Rule number one: always follow my orders; rule number two: never use my litter box; and rule number three: never disturb me when I’m sleeping! Simple. Even Tubby over there should have no problem following those rules.” Kipling snarled as he spoke pointing a paw in Ginger Jam’s direction when he mentioned “Tubby.”

  “Who made him king?” whispered pint-sized Blackberry.

  “What did you say, No Legs?” hissed Kipling menacingly.

  “Kipling, take a chill pill,” I snapped back.

  Mistake. Kipling began circling me. He kept his body low, looking more like a wild leopard than a house cat.

  “Enough, boys!” Harley entered the circle, standing between Kipling and me. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist! I don’t know about you two, but I’m starved. Look! Are those food bowls over there?”

  At the mention of food, all 10 cats in the room, myself included, turned to look at the wall opposite the litter boxes. There, 10 food bowls waited invitingly. Kipling ambled over first, picking the bowl with the most food. The other cats joined him, though I was careful to choose a bowl as far from the spotted cat as I could.

  Maybe it was the day’s excitement. Maybe it was the shot of adrenaline after my run-in with Kipling. Whatever the reason, the food tasted surprisingly good.

  After a good meal, I’m ready for a nap. As we finished eating, we retired to our cat trees. Well, all except Ginger Jam. r />
  I sidled up next to Ginger Jam and asked, “Aren’t you going to take a nap on your perch?”

  “Jerry, I’m not really that tired. I’ll just stretch out down here at the base for a minute.”

  “What’s the matter?” meowed Kipling from across the room. “I bet you can’t get to the top of your cat tree. Why, I bet you can’t even leap half a foot, let alone two! I’ll never understand why they let a cat like you into the Army!”

  Harley again intervened. “Kipling, with mates like you, a chap sure doesn’t need enemies. Leave the lad alone. Don’t you have something better to do, like sleeping?”

  “Kipling is right,” Ginger Jam dejectedly whispered. “I can’t leap that high. I really don’t know why the Army accepted me.”

  “Don’t let that old bully get you down. So maybe you can’t jump. I’m sure there’s a good reason you were chosen. Let’s say you and I take a nap on that nice soft-looking rug over there by the food dishes. I don’t feel much like climbing right now anyway,” I suggested.

  Next to the food dishes was a whole section of room carpeted in a soft, green rug. There were boxes here, too. Boxes filled with cat balls, felt mice, and other feline recreational equipment. The carpeted area was big enough for half a dozen cats to nap -- or play. We settled in on either end of the rug for a well-deserved snooze.

  Chapter 7 -- Training Begins

  “Alright sleeping beauties! Up and at ‘em! Wake up, you lazy cats. We’ve got work to do,” Sergeant Barnhard teased good-naturedly.

  The lunchtime food bowls had disappeared. And one cat tree was missing, replaced by a ground level cat bed. Sergeant Barnhard must have seen us sleeping in the recreation area and solved Ginger Jam’s sleeping challenge with an easier-to-reach bed.

  “Cats, gather around. You are about to begin your Fighting Tom training. I’m not going to kid you; this will be the hardest six-weeks of your life. We’ll push you physically and mentally to make sure you have what it takes to be called a Fighting Tom,” she paused. Her gaze traveled around the room, looking each cat directly in the eye. “And some of you may not make it. There’s no shame in washing out of training, only shame in not doing your best.”

  Ginger Jam, sitting next to me, gulped. “Why, oh why, did they pick me?” he meowed. “I’m not a Fighting Tom. I’m just an old butterball, like Kipling said.”

  “Shhh!” I hissed. “Don’t quit before you even start! Besides, Kipling doesn’t know everything. He’s just a bossy bully. Ignore him.”

  “….the classroom is an important part of your training,” continued Barnhard. “You’ll learn how to identify smells that signal danger. With your keen noses, you’ll be able to sniff out explosives, the ingredients of bombs, before people get hurt. Okay, Cats! Let’s go!”

  Sergeant Barnhard opened the barrack’s door and led us down a hallway to another room, just a short distance away from our living area. It was an odd classroom. At the front of the room were a table and a couple of chairs. A jumble of suitcases, boxes, backpacks, and other packages were heaped together in rows along one wall. A square olive green rug covered the middle of the room. A single chair was positioned in the center of the carpet. Barnhard sat in the chair, motioning for the rest of us to gather around.

  “Okay, boys. Make yourselves comfortable. You’re going to spend a lot of time in this room. My job is to teach you the difference between a normal smell and a dangerous smell. It’s tough to learn because the bad guys have gotten very clever about trying to hide those dangerous smells. But if we both do our jobs right, those bad guys will be no match for your super sniffers.”

  “You’ve all been chosen for your different talents. Some of you already have super sniffers. Others of you are clever about going places people or dogs can’t, or you possess a super intellect. I even suspect a few of you are true leaders. And there’s one of you who has already proven himself on the battle field.” She said that last looking directly at Harley.

  “It doesn’t matter what special talent got you here. From now on, we will be working as a team. This isn’t about a single cat.” I could have sworn she looked over at Kipling. “This is about a team that can sniff out bombs and save lives. I expect a 110 percent effort from all of you. Do I make myself clear?”

  Picasso, a purebred Havana Brown, offered a smooth meow back to her as he sidled up and rubbed his head against her pant leg.

  The Sergeant’s eyes narrowed and her voice hardened as she repeated herself. “Do I make myself clear?”

  This time we all meowed back and she smiled. “That’s better. Now let’s begin.”

  Barnhard reached into a bag at her side and carefully pulled out what looked like a big hunk of clay. “This looks harmless, but it’s what bad people make bombs out of. One at a time, come up and give it a good sniff. Then go over to that line of bags. Sniff around and see if you can find that smell again. If you do, sit down at the bag. Now who wants to go first?”

  “Let me show you cats how this is done,” meowed Kipling as he weaved his way around the other cats to take up position next to Sergeant Barnhard’s chair.

  “I should have known you’d give a go at it first, Kipling. Okay, boy, take a good sniff and see what you can do,” she encouraged.

  Kipling’s nose twitched as he sniffed the hunk of clay. Turning tail on the rest of us, he confidently sauntered over to the cases and began sniffing. Up and down the row he went, nose working. Finally, after thoroughly sniffing the line of bags twice, he sat in front of a purple duffle bag.

  “Nice try, Kipling. But it’s not there. Who’s next?”

  “Ha, big old nasty cat’s not so smart,” Ginger Jam quietly meowed to me.

  While Kipling’s nose didn’t score, there was nothing wrong with his hearing. “Okay, Tubby, you get up there and show us how it’s done,” he snarled rejoining us on the carpet. With his sleek head, he none too gently nudged the orange cat forward.

  “Ginger Jam. Great, come on forward and give it a go,” Sergeant Barnhard urged.

  The tabby slunk up to her chair and sniffed tentatively at the lump.

  “Come on, GJ. You have to take a good, strong sniff. Now remember that scent. Go!” she said, urging the cat towards the suitcase formation.

  Ginger Jam walked up and down the line of bags once, then twice. On his second pass, he sniffed all around a blue gym bag and then plopped his not-too-slender body down next to it.

  “Great job! Outstanding!” Barnhard praised the tabby and slipped him a cat treat. “They told me you had a good sniffer on you and I guess they were right. Okay, cats, there are two more suitcases with the same scent. Who wants to try next?”

  For the rest of the afternoon, we took turns sniffing samples and then suitcases. Ginger Jam was the only cat to match scent to bag. On our way back to the barracks, you could hear the other cats meowing back and forth about Ginger Jam.

  “Wow. How’d you do that?” I asked GJ. We were the last two cats to leave the classroom.

  “Gosh, I really don’t know. It’s kind of a curse, really. I remember when the vet suggested it would be a good idea for me to lose a little weight. My family hid my food, but I could find it no matter where they put it. I didn’t do too well with the diet,” he added sadly.

  “Well, you sure showed old smartie pants a thing or two,” I said laughingly as we walked through the barrack’s door.

  Oops. There, standing on the other side of the door, was Kipling. His eyes narrowed and his throat vibrated with a barely audible growl that made my fur stand on end.

  “Ginger Jam, I think we better stay out of Kipling’s way. I don’t think he’s too fond of either of us,” I warned the orange tabby.

  “You’re right,” he responded nervously. “The farther away we are from Kipling, the better.”

  Chapter 8 -- Barrack’s Trouble

  The next few days of training went like our first. When we weren’t practicing scent drills in the classroom, we’d relax, sleep, eat, and
play in our barrack’s room.

  The courtyard behind our building served as our exercise yard. Everyday we’d spend an hour outside running and climbing. I enjoyed the Hunt and Find drills the most. For the drills, Sergeant Barnhard would hide a piece of cloth soak in the target scent. Sometimes she hid it up in a tree or behind an old pile of gardening equipment. And once she even put the Hide and Find cloth in a trash can. The cat finding the prize received a cat niblet as a reward.

  GJ was Sergeant Barnhard’s star pupil in the classroom, and he did well at the Hide and Find drills, too. Sergeant would hide scents around our classroom in all manner of containers: boxes, suitcases, backpacks, and even envelopes. She explained that sometimes the bad guys would put bad things in packages and mail them. I found it was easier to find the scents hidden in boxes.

  The cats all adjusted to the training routine, but trouble was brewing in the barracks. When you put 10 cats together, you’re bound to have problems.

  The cats hung out in groups. Kipling had a small following of pure-breeds. Archangel, a Russian blue, became his top lieutenant, barking orders in the most polite of meows. Rex was another of Kipling’s stooges. I couldn’t prove it, but I think Rex also stole food from the other cats’ dishes.

  We all wanted to muzzle White Paws. To everyone’s mutual disgust during a Hide and Find drill, he took a swim in the courtyard fountain. Something just isn’t quite right with a swimming cat! Not only did he like water, but also he never shut up. He would talk and talk. Eat a little. Then talk some more. I’d never met a cat that meowed so much. White Paws’ constant meowing caused the trouble.

  “Did you see how Ginger Jam found that cloth tucked way back behind those shrubs. Why I think GJ could smell out the bad guys even if they were hiding in a garbage dump. Kipling walked past that spot four times and never even guessed it was there. Kind of makes you wonder if old Kipling could find a garbage dump! Ha! Yes sir, GJ has a nose like no other,” White Paws rambled on, not noticing the cat slinking up behind him.