Fighting Tom (Jerry the Kat series), Page 4

  “Well done!” bellowed Sanders. “Next.”

  White Paws somehow was shoved to the front, and off he went. He navigated the mouse traps and tunnel easily, but we all shudder as he ignored the balance beam and plunged into the pool to swim to the other side.

  “There is something just not right with a cat that likes water,” I muttered to Ginger Jam.

  White Paws gave a good shake to shed the pool water and started his climb up the wall. Poor White Paws hesitated at the top of the wall. Not wanting to jump down onto the trampoline, he froze in place. Sergeant Sanders looked on in disgust as Private Owens got out a ladder and climbed up to retrieve the terrified cat.

  The rest of us took our turns. Blackberry, with his short legs, fell into the pool. We meowed in terror as Rex took the course too fast and triggered a mousetrap. Thankfully, the trap sounded a piercing alarm instead of snapping a steel spring back onto Rex’s paw.

  I set off one of the mousetrap alarms, but managed the remainder of the obstacles without incident.

  We all nervously watched as Harley took his place at the start line.

  “Sarge, you aren’t going make the three-legged cat run the course. Are you?” Private Owens asked aghast. “It just don’t seem right, him being a war hero and all.”

  “War hero or not, to be a Fighting Tom that cat’s gotta pass the obstacle course to graduate. No exceptions!” Sanders barked back.

  Harley didn’t seem to notice the exchange between Owens and Sanders. He calmly waited at the start line, and just as calmly began the course when he heard the Sergeant shout, “Go.”

  Harley threaded his way through the mousetrap field without mishap, emerged from the tunnel and stood poised at the pool rim, eyeing both balance beam and pool.

  With just three legs, Harley had a tendency to zigzag back and forth when he walked. The balance beam looked too narrow for him to traverse with his unique walk. Harley seemed to think so, too. Looking at the beam and then the pool, Harley shrugged his shoulders and dove into the water just like White Paws.

  Harley swam to the pool’s other side, got out, and eyed the climbing wall. Backing up, he made a run at the wall, leaping to the first ledge.

  Just like the pool balance beam, the ledges on the climbing wall were narrow, much too narrow for the three-legged cat. Harley landed on the ledge, struggled for balance, slipped, and fell back down to the ground.

  I felt sorry for the old cat. Of all of us, he deserved to be a Fighting Tom, but it looked like the climbing wall just wasn’t possible for him.

  “My gosh, he’s trying again,” Rex commented next to me.

  “That cat’s got guts,” Picasso added.

  Sure enough, Harley shook himself off and readied for another go at the wall. This time, he stuck. Secure on the first ledge, he gentle leapt to the second. On the third ledge, he lost his balance, falling six feet to the ground below.

  That must have knocked the wind out of him, but again he got up. Shaking the dust from his fur, he prepared for another try.

  I’m not sure what cat started it, but the cats all began meowing in unison. “Harley. Harley. Harley…Harley.”

  The rhythmic meows got louder as the cats encouraged him. Up he leapt, landing securely on the first ledge. The meowing got louder. Gingerly, he leapt to the second ledge, teetered just a little, and regained his balance. Hooray! He made it to the third ledge and then the fourth.

  If it were possible, our meows became even louder as he scaled the fifth and sixth shelf. Just one more to go ledge to go. A hush fell on the courtyard.

  “You can do it Harley. I know you can do it,” I meowed quietly and then held my breath as he made one last leap to the top.

  The cats went crazy, meowing in congratulations. Harley steadied himself on top the wall and then smoothly jumped to the trampoline on the other side.

  “That’s one impressive cat,” Rex said.

  The cats who had already completed the course gathered around Harley giving him and each other fist bumps with our paws. Even Kipling congratulated the old cat.

  “Wow, Sarge! Did you see that? I didn’t think he could do it, but look at him. You have to admit, that’s good for a cat. I don’t think a dog could have done that.” Owens gushed.

  “Humph! Alright, enough. We still have five cats to go,” Sanders barked ending our Harley celebration.

  The remaining cats ran the obstacle course with only minor issues. At least all finished until it was Ginger Jam’s turn. He passed through the mousetrap field without incident, mounted the pool beam, and began a painfully slow walk across.

  He would’ve been fine if old Gravel Voice hadn’t barked, “Get the lead out and MOVE!”

  Startled, GJ lost his balance. Splash! Into the pool he fell. Rather than swim like Harley, the orange cat sank to the bottom.

  “Oh no! Sarge, I think that cat’s drowning!” Owens squeaked in a high-pitched, panicked voice. “We gotta save him!”

  “It’s just a cat. He ain’t no good if he can’t complete the course anyway,” the annoyed sergeant responded.

  We looked on in alarm. Cats began talking in sorrowful yowls.

  Seconds seemed like hours as Owens pranced from foot-to-foot. Finally, with a mighty stomp, he squared his shoulders. “I’m not going to watch that cat drown,” shouted the indignant private, jumping into the pool with his boots on. The water only reached his waist, so it was easy for him to pull Ginger Jam off the pool’s bottom.

  We all gathered round as he placed the limp cat on the ground. “We gotta do something, Sarge! I don’t think he’s breathing.”

  “Well I sure as heck ain’t going to do CPR on a cat!” Gravel Voice was annoyed at Owens for rescuing poor Ginger Jam in the first place and wasn’t about to help. Period.

  Chapter 12 – Fall Down Seven Times

  Poor Ginger Jam. The Fighting Tom’s had experienced our first casualty and I was fighting mad. Sergeant Sanders killed my friend and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. I readied to pounce and claw his sneering face when a familiar voice stopped me.

  “Alright, clear a path. Give the poor animal room to breathe.” The cats all moved aside for Doc as she knelt next to Ginger Jam. “Poor, little guy,” she said in a soothing voice. “Sorry about this little guy, but I’ve got to do this.”

  With those words, she wrapped her arms around the cat. With her hands clasped together in a fist, she gave the wet cat a quick jerk right below his rib cage. Ginger Jam gagged and coughed up pool water.

  With the water out of his lungs, he took a few quick, wheezing breaths. Doc continued to hold and pet him, calming the cat as he regained consciousness.

  “What happened here!” she demanded, glaring first at Sanders and then Private Owens.

  “Well, you see, Ma’am. The cats were doing this here obstacle course and old lard bu..., I mean the ginger cat took a tumble into the water. I guess all that extra weight, made him sink to the bottom of the pool. That’s when I ordered Private Owens,” Sanders pointed in the Private’s direction, “...to jump in the pool to pull the cat out. We were just about to start CPR when you arrived, Ma’am.”

  Doc turned towards Private Owens. “Well, is that what happened?” she asked the soldier.

  Refusing to meet her boring gaze, Owens shuffled his feet as he looked down at the ground. “Ma’am, like the Sergeant said. The cat fell into the water.”

  “Humph! Sergeant, take the cats back to their barracks. Mark my words, this isn’t over yet!” She turned her back on both men and marched back towards her office, carrying the orange cat with her.

  Sergeant Barnhard brought Ginger Jam back to the barracks.

  Crowding around the orange tabby, cats meowed support, even Archangel and Rex chimed in words of encouragement. Kipling looked on in disgust.

  The sleek, leopard cat snarled, “That cat has no business being part of an elite fighting force. I can’t understand what General McDoodle was thinking when he
allowed Tubby to train with us.”

  “Take that back, you conceited fur ball,” I hissed. With tensed muscles and flexed claws, I readied to pounce the sneering feline.

  “Jerry, it’s okay,” said Ginger Jam in a defeated voice. “Kipling’s right, I have no business in the Fighting Toms. Look, I can’t even jump up on a cat tree,” he said, pointing a paw to his ground level cat bed.

  “Rubbish, lad,” chimed in Harley. “You’ve got as much right to be here as that pompous flea bag.”

  “Fall down seven times. Get up eight,” the three-legged cat added.

  Caught off guard, Kipling’s jaw dropped. The other cats just stared at Harley, each of us fearful the older cat had gone batty.

  A knowing smile spread across the cat’s face. “You heard me. Fall down seven times. Get up eight,” he repeated.

  “Uh...Harley...Are you feeling okay?” I asked. All thought of squaring off against Kipling evaporated as I fought to understand Harley’s bizarre comment.

  “Jerry, don’t look so concerned. I’ve not gone daft. You all know that I lost my leg while serving with my British Army unit. What you don’t know is I was in a shambles after the accident. My recovery was rough. To be honest, I was mad and sad at the same time. I didn’t think I’d ever work again, let alone be able to stay on with me mates. Mostly, I just felt sorry for myself. That’s when my Army handler, Sergeant Smythe, told me to buck up. He said ‘Fall down seven times. Get up eight’.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said, still puzzled.

  “It’s an old Japanese saying. Anyway, it’s simple. If life puts you down, you have to get back up on your feet and try again. The only failure is in not trying,” answered Harley.

  “So Ginger Jam, you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, you’re not in fighting cat shape, but your mates here, can help. It’s really up to you if you want to be a Fighting Tom,” the old cat counseled.

  Chapter 13 -- Get up Eight

  A thunderous crash shook the room, jarring me awake. “What the heck,” I muttered as I looked around the barracks from my cat bed perch.

  Cats gathered around Harley’s capsized bed. “Alright, Rex, let’s get this bed back up. Ginger Jam, give it another go. Jerry, be a good chap and help Rex.”

  Puzzled, I jumped down from my perch and helped Rex right the toppled bed.

  “Now steady lads, put some shoulder into supporting the pole while Ginger Jam gives this another try,” commanded the old cat.

  Rex and I braced our shoulders up against the cat tree pole as Ginger Jam trotted towards us.

  “Now, laddie. Jump!” Harley shouted.

  A mighty thunk sounded as all of Ginger Jam’s 17 pounds hit the cat bed. The bed’s platform tipped but Rex and I kept it upright leaning our combined weight into the platform’s supporting pole. Ginger Jam, for his part, clung to the bed’s rim with his front paws, stubbornly refusing to let go.

  “Now, pull yourself up!”

  “You can do it GJ!” chimed in Picasso

  “If I can do it, so can you,” shouted short-legged Blackberry.

  Dangling full length, Ginger’s front legs began to bend as the great tabby exerted all his effort to execute a chin up. Awakened by the commotion, other Fighting Toms gathered round calling out support. GJ’s chin came level with his front paws. With a mighty heave ho, he hefted himself up over the rim and plopped down onto the bed.

  “Hooray!”

  “Way to go, GJ!”

  “I did it!” an exuberant Ginger Jam meowed, prancing around atop the cat bed.

  It was a good thing Rex and I still supported the bed’s base, as the orange cat’s celebratory bouncing would otherwise have set the platform bed toppling to the ground, again.

  “See, what did I tell you? You just need a little confidence, old fellow. We’ll get you in Fighting Tom shape. Now give Rex and Jerry a break, and come on down.”

  Before Ginger Jam could leap down, Sergeant Barnhard entered the room. “What the heck?” she said, as she approached us. “Well, look at this? What are you doing up in Harley’s bed?” she asked, as she stroked and petted Ginger Jam. Her puzzled frown gave way to a smile, and her eyes twinkled. “Hmm, I wonder. Okay, cats. It’s time to get moving. We have a lot to cover and just three weeks to get ready for the big demonstration.”

  “Sergeant, sorry I’m late,” gushed Private Owens as he rushed, breathless into the room.

  “No worries, Owens. I was just about to tell the Toms about the VIP demonstration.” Turning to the cats, she began, “Three weeks from now, General McDoodle intends to present the Fighting Toms to his boss, Major General Harper. You cats will have the opportunity to show General Harper how good you are at detecting bombs. Since the beginning, Harper has been skeptical about the Fighting Tom project. This will be your chance to show him that he is wrong. You’ll show him that the Fighting Toms can detect explosives even better than the canine units!”

  “Private Owens will help me with the rest of your training. Alright, Fighting Toms, let’s head to the classroom.” Barnhard turned and walked toward the door. We followed, almost colliding with her as she abruptly stopped. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Sergeant Sanders will NOT be joining us. He’s been transferred back to the military working dog unit.”

  “Ahem. There is some justice in this world,” I said, as we followed Barnhard out the door and down the hall to the classroom.

  “I almost feel sorry for the dogs,” commented Blackberry.

  “Well, Blackberry, there are cat people and dog people. If you ask me, Sanders is clearly a dog person,” said Rex.

  “Cat person. Dog person. I just think he is a bad person. I’m glad he isn’t with the Fighting Toms anymore,” I added, as the last of us entered the classroom.

  The cats, waiting for instruction, gathered round Barnhard and Owens. Some Fighting Toms sat on the carpeted floor, while others jumped up onto classroom chairs. Ginger Jam, heady with the success of his morning acrobatics, managed to claw his way up onto a chair near Barnhard.

  The Sergeant petted the purring cat while she spoke to the rest of us. “Toms, I’m not going to sugar coat this. The only way the Fighting Toms will be ready in three weeks is for each one of you to give us 110% effort. Private Owens and I will give you the needed training; the rest is up to you.”

  “Uh, Sergeant Barnhard, don’t you think you should mention the testing,” stammered Owens.

  “That’s right. You’ll be tested on your ability to sniff out explosive scents. You must pass the smell drill, in order to graduate and participate in the demonstration exercise. Ginger Jam, you, old boy, also must pass the obstacle course. I know you have the best nose in the unit, but General McDoodle insisted. ALL Fighting Toms must pass the obstacle course test,” she explained. “But look at you now, jumping up all over the place. I’m sure in two weeks the obstacle course will be a cake walk for you!”

  Sergeant Barnhard divided the Fighting Toms into two groups. Private Owens took his group out to the courtyard, while the rest of us stayed with Sergeant Barnhard in the classroom. I’m not a fan of smell drills. Believe me, it gets pretty boring sniffing the same thing over and over again, so I was excited when Owens brought his group back in and Barnhard led our group outside.

  Addressing us, Barnhard began, “Toms, from now until your test day, we’ll not only be training in the classroom, but also in the field. We’ll cover this entire military base doing Hunt and Find drills. Wherever we train, you’ll find something different. We’ll search boxes, briefcases, paper bags, garbage cans, and maybe even old fast food containers. Some of these will be perfectly harmless, while others will contain the smell we practiced in the classroom. Your job is to discover that practice scent. Remember your training. Once you find the target scent, sit down and wait for me. I promise you a treat for each package you discover,” Barnhard smiled and invitingly shook a box of cat niblets.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Sergeant approached me. “Very goo
d, Jerry,” she cooed, as she stroked my head and slipped me a treat. I’d found an old cheeseburger wrapper near a set of picnic tables that reeked of the target smell.

  Blackberry and Harley had already alerted at a brown box and a diaper bag. Now it was up to the two remaining cats in our group, Archangel and Kipling, to find the scent.

  “Hmmm, I wonder?” mused Harley, as he intently watched the two working cats. “Very interesting,” he commented, as Kipling alerted next to a gym bag. Archangel found another parcel moments later.

  “Did you see that, Jerry?” Harley asked.

  “What?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but it’s suspicious that Kipling detected the package right after Archangel walked by it. Those two cats always are together when we have a scent assignment,” he added.

  “Harley, are you saying that Archangel is help Kipling cheat?” I asked.

  “No, laddie. There’s something dodgy about how Kipling always pairs up with Archangel. I better keep an eye on those two.”

 

  Chapter 14 -- The Fight

  The days flew by in a blur of activity. We spent half our time in the classroom, learning and relearning key scents. The Fighting Tom field exercises took place all over -- in a nearby playground, out in the courtyard, through some office spaces and once, in the mess hall.

  The mess hall is an army-style cafeteria. Soldiers go there to eat, drink coffee, or take a break from their work. This afternoon, the mess hall was almost empty with just a few people sitting at tables finishing lunch. Private Owens, quite pleased with himself, had hidden several bags and briefcases around the room. The young Army private especially enjoyed taking us cats on field exercises. Like us Fighting Toms, Owens got bored with the classroom routine. However, out in the field, he became deviously clever about hiding things for us to find.

  It was in the mess hall, we encountered Sergeant Sanders. Old Gravel Voice sat by himself at a round table working a crossword puzzle. “What are these darn fur balls doing in my mess hall,” he snarled.

  “It’s a field drill, Sarge. Don’t worry. The cats will be done in no time. The Fighting Toms can sniff out danger faster than those old dogs you work with,” bragged Owens. “Okay, Toms, get to work.”