Catopolis

Ba

Turning toward Diefenbaker, I neatened my fur again. “I’ll have to put in an appearance. We have to get the protesters to move. If the humans notice, there’ll be more publicity than any of us want.”

“What are you going to do?” my aide asked, his nose coming up as if to scent my response.

“I’ll go down there myself. Go give my regrets at our lunch engagement, then meet me there. I want to get the lay of the land before I make my final decision. I think we can offer something worth making voters back us…”

“You shouldn’t go alone, sir. What if they notice you?”

I flexed my front claws against the stone wall, this time with purpose. “Do you think they will if I want it otherwise?”

Getting to the site of the protest meant winding around the few humans collecting in front of City Hall. At least whatever they were doing with their loud music made an excellent distraction. I pressed on.

Maybe they won’t notice the birds, I hoped.

The central voting booths were along the canal just in front of the university. It was always a quiet place in the early spring, making it perfect for our needs. Humans biked or jogged along the waterway; they didn’t linger as they did in the height of summer. It was a safe place for voting. Or it would have been if birds weren’t trying to attract attention. Hiding the voters bringing mouse ballots was bad enough; hiding flying protestors, especially vocal ones, would be impossible.

At least everyone’s eyes would be on the protesters.

The hounds won’t be after me right away.

And while my silvery coat might look distinguished in the municipal chambers, down here I’d pass as a mottled gray street cat, at least as long as no one got close enough to read my collar.

There were more birds than even I could have imagined.

As I came out of the line of trees cutting between the heart of the city and the river, my eyes caught on the hundreds-no, thousands-of pigeons swarming our voting station, a rough-cut stone building. The canal hadn’t been used commercially in over a decade, so the wheelhouse was perfect for our purpose. Central, yet u

No hope of that, now.

On the other side of the thin iron walkway crossing the canal, a crowd of newshounds barked questions at birds sitting on the fence behind the wheelhouse even as McClung, a Persian and the Chief Elections Officer, also tried to bring calm to the chaos. On my side of the canal, a hundred cats lined the water, several playing with their ballots while they waited. One fat calico appeared calm and contented as she watched the flight of birds overhead, a thin tail dangling out the side of her mouth.

Knew there’d be a problem with edible ballots. Tried to tell them.

As I padded down the incline toward the voters, a young vote counter on the other side of the canal snapped at a passing pigeon, capturing a mouthful of white and gray feathers. A loud squawk filled the air as the indignant bird broke away.

“You’re an official. Act like one!” McClung scolded the youngster, her ire apparent. If anyone could settle this crowd, it was the Chief Elections Officer. She hated inequitable treatment, even of birds.

“Please, this is no time for arguments. You know that the votes must be counted today or there will be no hope for an election for at least another year.” That was Whittington’s silky voice. “Do not judge the future until the mice have been counted. This public display is unconscionable.” I found him tucked right in the middle of the newshounds.

Of course. Fat cat can’t help seeking the limelight.

“They’ll learn. Learn when they see this ruckus. You cats will be stopped. Stopped. One way or another.” The bird that spoke was fog-colored and speckled, with one wing a dull brown. An ugly thing, no wonder he looked confident as he settled down on the fence right next to Whittington. No pedigreed cat in his right mind would be interested in taking him out, not unless he wanted a bad case of indigestion, and scorn from his companions at nabbing the ugliest member of the flock.

“Why doesn’t everybody just leave the birds alone?” a nearby voter said. “It’s not as if most of us need to fend for ourselves. Not even alley cats go for fresh pigeon, unless they’re starving.”

“That’s because those pigeons have helped the strays more than the politicos ever have,” an elder cat big enough to be part Maine Coon responded. “Always on the lookout for fresh fish. I’ve heard they worked out a deal.”

“Good for them. It’s not like the fat cats will ever do anything.”

“Maybe Churchill’ll bring change-I have a feeling about him.” My ears pricked. This time it was a cat further down the line.

“A bit quiet-doesn’t seem the type to rock the boat,” another said.

“I…” My voice trailed off before I could gain their attention. They didn’t understand. I wanted to change things. I wanted to get the alley cats off the streets. I wanted to ensure all cats could get medical attention. I wanted to make a difference.

I needed to.

I knew until the election was over, I couldn’t give the newshounds something to fight over. I had to act the pedigreed cat, the one who won votes just by existing. Any hint of controversy…

But if what they all want change? What if they want someone who will speak up?

Maybe the real voters were interested in something more than posturing.

Maybe they wanted to know what I thought, too.

It was a strange notion, and one I immediately cast aside. The moment I voiced my thoughts, I’d give myself away. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t. I was close to wi

Did I want to stir up trouble?

I’m better off just seeing where the ball bounces. It’s too close. These couple of hundred voters standing right here could be the tipping point.

No. I couldn’t do it.

Once I was mayor-then- then I could start being honest.

“Please. Do we need another year of campaigning? Nothing will get done if you do not let the votes get through. I promise I will do what I can.”

As Whittington continued his appeal, I noticed Diefenbaker coming up behind the newshounds. Birds fluttered backward upon sight of my campaign manager. They would know I was close.

Bet they’re looking forward to it, too.

Two candidates facing off at a polling station would be the day’s top story.

Before the results are in, anyway.

“And where do you sit?” Je

Can’t give him the time.

“The other candidate doesn’t even see this as a priority, or he’d be here himself. Unlike if I win. If I win, I promise I will do what I can,” Whittington said, pushing between the beagle and Diefenbaker.

That was my cue.

“Do what you can?” I said, slipping between the cats I had overheard and padding my way to the walk overlooking the canal. I ignored the yowls of surprise as I passed. “Does that include discontinuing your own practice of hunting when you’re off at your summer house near Central Park?”

Whittington wasn’t going to stop hunting the birds; it was a truth I knew from three years serving together on council. Maybe I could make this about him and not have to choose sides at all.

“If you got in, you’d drag your paws all winter long waffling over the issue, maybe set up a commission to study the matter further, and then be right back hunting in summer,” I accused.

“I keep my word,” my competition said, tilting his head so he could meet the eyes of some of the voters. His long black coat sparkled with an elegance I didn’t have.

“So why are we even here? If you’d kept your promises, the birds wouldn’t have any issues, would they?”