“. . . so that’s why I need your help.”

The squirrel quivered among the roots of the tree, the tree whose top swayed in the stiff breeze. “And why should we trust you?”

“I’m a cat of my word.” The gray tabby sat, serene, a few feet from the squirrel. “You do this for me, and upon my honor, I will leave your clan alone.”

“A cat’s honor isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on,” said the squirrel, his fluffy gray tail twitching.

“Mine is,” insisted the tabby, whose name was Whiskers.

The squirrel, who didn’t have a name, chittered. “And what about the dog? What about… retribution?”

“You do this, you’ll be safe. Look, the humans weren’t gone for five seconds before Spike knocked the vase to the foyer floor. The dog looked at me and laughed. He laughed! He knows this will be blamed on me when they get back. He’s done this before. I’m tired of it. That’s the only retribution involved, here. Besides, you do this right, Spike won’t be a problem anymore. You know you want him gone. Almost as much as I do.”

The squirrel sighed. “Very well. I suggest you wait out here.”

“I can’t watch?”

“You’ll want to be out here. You’re asking us to trust you. Now trust us.”

Whiskers watched from his usual perch on the deck as the squirrel army poured in through the doggy door. He heard the sounds of barking, things breaking, barking, and frantic chittering coming from inside, and he smiled.



“I loved the part where Bruce Campbell did the thing with the chainsa- holy shit,” said Doug.

“What the hell?” exclaimed his wife, Karen. From the doorway, they surveyed the damage. “I thought it was bad outside, with the wind and all.”

“It’s that damn cat again,” said Doug. “I’m telling you, he’s a menace.”

“Spike?” Karen called. “Where’s the dog?”

“Probably outside.” Doug had moved to the back door. “Dog door’s blocked by a fallen limb. Poor thing couldn’t get back in.”

Picking their way over the rubble of fallen vases, cookware and priceless antiques, the couple walked to the bedroom, where they found the dog cowering in a corner, shivering, among the shards of their bedside lamp. “Spike?” Doug called. “What’s the matter?”

“Well, there you go. Spike’s inside.”

“So where’s the damn cat?”

Karen picked her way back to the kitchen. “He’s out on the deck,” she said.

“So if Whiskers didn’t do all this-?”

“Spike! Bad dog!” Karen used her stern voice. “That’s it. He’s going to your mother’s.”

Doug sighed, glancing from his wife to the cat outside. “Yeah, okay. I guess it was him, all along.”


“Thanks, squirrel.”

“Blocking the pet door was the hard part,” said the squirrel, nodding. “The rest? That was kinda fun.”

“I bet it was,” said Whiskers.

The rodent chuckled. “Went easier than I thought. Who ever heard of a dog who was afraid of squirrels?”