Cats Rule

By Allie Jo Andersen

The puppy won’t stop following me.

I balance on top of a dilapidated fence, eyeing my hanger-on. This creature is supposed to be my enemy. In fact, I am on my way to a meeting with General Theo, leader of the Federal Feline Military Organization.

I sit on my haunches and lean down to take a closer look at the slobbery barbarian. Judging from his short legs and stout body, the puppy can’t be older than four or five weeks—too little to understand that I am a cat and therefore his enemy.

With a quick glance around, I leap to the floor of the dark alley. One of my forepaws lands in a dirty puddle. I hiss and shake off the muddy water. A cat from decades ago would have yowled when he stepped in a puddle. Not today. Amidst the war between cats and dogs, modern cats have to be stealthy.

I sit down beside the puppy. I haven’t seen a dog around this area of town in a while.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I hiss, keeping my voice low. If word spreads that I have spoken to a canine, I’ll be banned from all future cat meetings. “Where are your barbarous friends?”

The puppy wags his tail, giving me a grin I’ve only ever seen dogs give humans.

I scan the alley. Dogs are a rare sight these days; the war has all but killed them off, much to the pride of my kind. This puppy’s parents must have been lost in the conflict. I could just leave the pup here. After all, he is my enemy. Dogs are mostly gone anyway, what does one puppy matter? He’s just a drop in an ocean of blood.

I stand, turn away from the puppy, and saunter down the alley. The puppy follows on my heels, panting and wagging his tail. I reach the street, flanked by collapsed, empty buildings, and pause.

I can’t let anyone—especially not my fellow cats—see this creature following me, even here on the abandoned side of town. I spin and arch my back. My hair stands on end, and I let out a low, hissing growl. A warning.

The puppy stops, falling over his giant feet. One of his large gray ears flops into his face, and he stares up at me with big brown eyes.

My fur slightly relaxes. Of course the puppy is new to the world and uncertain who his people are. For all he knows, I could be on his side.

I sit down again and curl my tail around my paws. If I saw a kitten wandering around the streets, I’d try to help it. But a puppy will grow up to be a dog. And dogs are bad… right?

The puppy cocks its head at me. After a few moments, he sneezes and stands up again, tail wagging.

“Sorry, kid, I can’t help.”

I’m turning away when the puppy sticks out his big, sloppy tongue and licks my face.

I take in a sharp breath and stare at him. I’ve seen dogs do this to humans, but never to a cat. Does this creature think I’m his human?

The puppy’s big brown eyes stare up at me, glowing like a kitten’s. So trusting. So innocent. No sign of hatred or prejudice. Maybe all dogs aren’t bad. Maybe they’re raised that way.

Which means this puppy can be raised to respect cats.

“I’m going to regret this,” I mutter. I turn toward the puppy. “Come on, you little terror.”

The puppy trots beside me, his slobbery tongue hanging out. Every now and then he strays a few feet away, but each time he bounds back to my side.

I have no idea how to care for a puppy. But how much harder can it be than caring for a kitten?

“Come on, Leon!” Terror yips. His tail wags furiously as he prances ahead of me up the sidewalk.

I sigh. In the short month since my troop adopted Terror, he’s completely trampled two of our hideouts. We quickly learned that he needs time outside to release some of his energy, so I was tasked with giving him his daily walks. Penalty for being such a softie.

I hustle to catch up with Terror, and something catches my eye. A large blur of brown fur speeds across the street—right toward Terror.

My heart accelerates, and I dash forward to protect him. But the “attacker” simply dodges in front of Terror and blocks him from stepping in a patch of poison ivy. I skid to a stop.

The dog, a tall Boxer, turns toward me. “I’ve seen you around here quite a bit. You seem different from the other cats.”

Why is this Boxer talking to me? I’ve never had a civil conversation with any dog before—other than Terror.

I cock my head. The pup must be rubbing off on me. “What do you mean I’m different?”

The Boxer takes a deep breath. “We dogs are planning something. This war isn’t only costing the lives of our friends—it’s also costing the lives of our humans. Can you… would you be willing to help me protect them?”

A month ago, I would’ve immediately hissed and taken a swipe at this beast’s flat snout. But now…

Terror races up to me, drops a twig beside my paws, and gives me a slobbery kiss on the side of my face. Wiping the drool away with my paw, I remember his innocence, his need for love. Just because he is a dog didn’t mean he was the enemy.

I look up at the Boxer and nod. “How can I help?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Allie Jo Andersen is a follower of Christ who loves weaving tales of adventure that entertain while instilling truth in her readers’ minds. If she’s not coming up with new worlds to explore, she’s probably cuddling one of her bunnies, exploring someone else’s fictional world, or planning victory in the latest family game.

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