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The old woman grew hungry. 

It was so hard to bear, poor thing, with her stomach so withered and aching, so she raced aching-bellied across the lands and leapt at the largest thing she saw, which was a moose, and rolled over and over and over with her hands around its giant furry neck.  When she was done it was gone and she was hungrier. 

So she ate.  And ate.  And ate.  Blood and sinew and muscle and bone and organ flowed down her throat and oh she was no longer hungry and she was happy, so happy that she belched and picked her teeth with the animal’s antlers and threw them into the dirt and went off to sleep. 

Rains came, and the antlers were broad and wide and held the water like cupped hands.  It drained into their spongey insides and filled them to the brim and moss grew on them, and ferns, and they filled with muck and pond scum and life and frogs came and newts and turtles and a thousand thousand things that crawled and sang and flew.

It was a bog, and it was just about the perfect place for more moose to live.  And so they did, in their hundreds, in their thousands, and the old woman was never hungry again. 

***

The old woman grew thirsty. 

It was so painful, poor thing, with her mouth so dry and crackling, so she leapt into the air and clawed and grasped and came down with a bird in her two wrinkled hands.  She bit its head off and drank all the blood from it in one long gulp so strong and so smooth that the bird’s flesh and feathers withered up and turned to dry dust, and when she was done she breathed a sigh of relief and threw the bird’s bones to the ground.

They shattered, poor dry bones, shattered and splintered and shuddered into long, delicate fragments.  But it was a fine day with a warm sun, and soft rain came overnight, and shy growth came to peek from the ends of the broken bones, and soon they grew in new ways, then more, then more, then more and more and more until they were bigger than almost any other living thing – and certainly taller.

They were trees, and the birds loved them, couldn’t get enough of them.  They roosted there in thousands and millions and billions and the old woman was never thirsty again. 

***

The old woman grew tired.

It was so hard to feel the hard dirt on her aching bones, poor thing, so she roamed and shivered and clutched at herself looking for a softer place to sleep as she grew wearier and wearier.  She was so tired that she walked into a buffalo without noticing, and he didn’t appreciate this, and she didn’t appreciate THAT, so she head-butted him (once) very hard and he died.  The buffalo, she noticed, had a very fine thick coat of hair, and he wasn’t using it anymore, so she tore it all off him and licked it clean and rolled herself up in it and slept like the blessed dead, after eating the rest of the buffalo for an evening snack. 

All around the sleeping old woman the fluffy hair that had been torn free in the ruckus wavered in the midnight wind, billowing softly.  A lot of it was plucked up and taken away, but some of it dug deeper, put down roots, and stayed – as stubborn as the buffalo had been.  And the dawn dew fortified it, and the morning sun straightened its back, and the old woman awoke in a long meadow of tall sprouting plants. 

They were prairie grasses, buffalo grasses, the sort of plants that will eat up a whole horizon like only the sea can, and the buffalo came and loved them dearly, so the old woman was never cold and tired again. 

***

The old woman woke up and her bones did not ache, her stomach did not complain, and her throat was smooth and unparched. 

But her back felt sort of funny and lumpy, so she scratched and scraped at it with whatever was close to hand until a lump fell off, which she took a good look at.  It was some sort of ape that she’d rolled over and squished in the night, and it was pretty funny-looking. 

“You’re pretty funny-looking,” she said (her first words), “and not good for much,” (her second) and so she threw it away across the grasses, over the trees, past the bogs, and so on and so forth until it landed somewhere. 

It lay there, stripped of its hair from its long flight, and it was still pretty funny-looking.  And sooner or later more funny-looking apes came to be, all of them, standing there around looking at each other in confusion and wondering where the heck they were.  It wasn’t a bog.  It wasn’t a forest.  It wasn’t the plains.  It was just a bunch of funny-looking apes staring at each other until the sun went down, when they couldn’t see anything and wandered off and got lost. 

That was us.  And we still haven’t quite found anywhere we really properly fit in, have we?

It was a last-ditch effort the first time.  No other options, no other thoughts in the head, no plan, no hope.  Just a blind grasp for the first thing that might help.

And as the two world leaders sat across the table from each other, hands twisted into claws and mouths into snarls, a then-nameless member of staff ran in with a big plateful of grandma’s cookies. 

Turns out it’s hard to hurl threats with cookies in your mouth, and harder still to stay in a bad mood.  Threats turned into remonstrations turned into grumbles turned into mumbled apologies and once again, for the first time, the world was saved by grandma’s cookies. 

***

The peak towered above, a fortress in slate-grey masked by a shellstorm of hail and snow that turned the whole sky into a no-man’s-land. 

The guide swore, hands frozen and fumbling as they grasped and scrabbled at pitons that turned ice-slick even in the palm.  Two people left on the mountain, tiny fluttering lives clinging to the last stretch, arms gone numb and red-hot all at once, brains fluttering, hearts guttering, left with nothing but hope for energy and even that dropping away. 

And then the guide remembered the little pocket their husband had sewn into their jacket, and its emergency supply, and they reached inside and found – still not quite frozen as it rested in their palm – a single, perfect cookie from grandma. 

They made the peak.  They made it home.  They made it known. 

***

The house groaned and grumbled and fell over and in the distance down went her childhood home under protest and duress and the treads of a tank that looked almost as unhappy with the whole situation as she did, half a mile away and on a nicely-demolished bluff that looked entirely empty and entirely wasn’t because it was her and her gun that didn’t have the ammo. 

But the tank didn’t see her.

But her gun didn’t have the ammo. 

But the tank was in the open.

But her gun didn’t have the ammo.

But she had SOMETHING. 

She put the last of grandma’s cookies in her mouth, bit down, pulled the trigger, and sent a swirling shrapnel cloud of shattered cookie jar ricocheting right off the tank’s hatch and into the cupola at the exact instant it flipped open so the commander could have a smoke. 

It didn’t win the war by itself, but nobody could argue it wasn’t a necessary step. 

***

“Forceps!”
“Staples!”
“Stint!”
“Scissors!”

“Mallet!”
“Pliers!”
“Glue!”
Every word and every action saw the patient slip still further away, heart crawling sluggishly against their ribs.  The new blood was coming out as fast as it came in; spurting free of sullen and open arteries, soaking through cotton and bursting stitching and dying everything red.

“Clotting!”
Damn the supply shortages.

“CLOTTING!”
Damn them.

“CLOTTING!”
But he had the container of raw dough in his pocket, and he brought it out and shoved it into the surgeon’s hand, and by the luck of jesus and little fishes she didn’t pause to ask just shoved it into place and the extra tablespoon of chocolate chips grandma insisted on clogged the ragged edge of the shattered artery like a plug in a drain. 

The blood stopped like someone had slammed a door in its face, the life stayed inside the body, and the patient’s existence continued. 
If somewhat sweeter than before. 

***

Too many leaks, too few patches.  Oxygen, nitrogen, and nastier things that had no place inside a human lung.  They were already wearing masks but at this rate they’d have to put on the suits just to keep the station habitable for another few hours, trying to plug a sieve with fingers wrapped in a suit of armour that made plate mail look like a body glove. 

No more putty.  No more sealant.  No more hope.  No more time.  

One more thing, wrapped inside the snack compartment.

Each cookie was just firm enough to stand up to vacuum, each cookie had just enough of a soft center to deform to perfectly fill the damage. 

It took sixty-eight of grandma’s cookies to plug every one of the holes the space junk had blasted through the ISS.  Luckily, every astronaut had brought fifty, and had been saving them carefully.  For special occasions.  

***

A hint of stimulant, a drop of suppressant, the sweat and tears and genius and hard, driving work of thousands, all placed in a single IV bag, and then a single bite-sized addition ground into a gentle dust and sprinkled in. 

Vein by vein, it spreads through the tired old body.  Cell by cell, it gently meets the raging growth.  Strand by strand, it mends the mess of DNA turned to malice and meat. 

It’s faster than chemo.  It has no side effects except for cinnamon breath.  It has a one hundred percent success rate at all stages.  It is adopted globally and no company lays copyright to it. 

***

The plutonium is buried deep.  The uranium is laid to rest.  The rods and the water beds and the lead linings are stripped down and carefully stored and the reactor’s heart is filled with a gentle row of ovens at a stable, cautious temperature that will, when supplied produce a single batch every thirty-five minutes on the dot. 

The soft warmth that emanates is gentler and milder than the rage of fission, but it doesn’t diminish with distance or time.  Soon it fuels the world. 

***

Seventy-eight years the ascetic sat on the pole, eating air and rain and the odd hailstone for birthdays, grasping at the sublime, waiting for the thunderbolt, looking into the universe harder  and harder as their eyes shrank from disuse into deep pits in their wind-softened face.

One day, a particular young monk made the trip to their hillside and passed up a very small paper bag holding a single crumb.

It weighed on the ascetic’s tongue like a giant’s blow, it passed down their throat like gilded breath, it went in, in, in, in and in that moment the connection leapt from mind to body to soul to cacao bean to wheat field to sugar field to spice fields to farmhands to soil to sky to sea to horizon to BEYOND and

It worked on acolytes too.  And it was a lot faster than seventy-eight years of sitting on a pole. 

***

Grandma died peacefully in her sleep the very next year.  Age ninety-seven, almost thirty great-great grandchildren, much beloved, much missed, fondly-remembered.  

It turned out nobody wrote down her recipe

Things went a bit shit-sandwich-sideways after that. 

Once upon a time in a far-away kingdom there lived an executioner, and a busy and prosperous executioner she was thanks to one happy and undeniable fact: the king was absolutely batshit.  He would execute someone for having a shadow longer than his, or for whistling out of tune, or because they looked a little too much like someone he’d already had executed and he wanted to be sure the job had been done right.  All day long the executioner’s axe sang and warbled; all evening long the gallows grew heavy with human fruit; and all night she slept the sleep of the gainfully and exhaustively employed.  And lo, everyone was most happy, except for the peasants, until that fateful day when the executioner was putting away her cutting-block and she heard the most terrifying words that could be spoken in all the land: “I’m bored.”

“Pardon, my liege?” she inquired obsequiously.

“I’m bored,” whined the king, scratching his beard absently for leftovers from dinner. “Always the same old chop, chop, chop. Always the same old drop, drop, drop. Why can’t we have fun?”
“I could draw and quarter them, my liege,” offered the executioner.

“Boring.”
“I could break them upon the wheel?”
“Boooooring.”
“I could crucify the”

“BORING, BORING, BORING,” sang the king.  “And the bishop would get crabby and lecture me, and that’s TWICE as boring, and then you’d have to execute him too and it would be TRIPLE boring! I want a new execution tomorrow morning first thing or I’ll get one of the prisoners to execute you instead. Maybe the irony would be funny.”

The executioner was quite upset by this and didn’t appreciate the irony in the slightest, and the thought of her prized axe (she called it Daffodil) falling into the smelly hands of some upstart peasant appalled her, so she did what everyone in need of advice did: she went to her mother.

“Mom, the king’s going to execute me unless I come up with a new execution by tomorrow,” she said.

“I told you not to get into this job,” said the executioner’s mother.  “But did you listen to me? No, no, no, too big for your britches, too clever to listen, and off you went without so much as pretending to care.”
After three cups of tea the executioner escaped and did what everyone else in need of advice did: she went to her grandmother.

***

“Granma, the king’s going to execute me unless I come up with a new execution by tomorrow,” she said.

“Oh well,” said the executioner’s granma, offering her a tin of old, crumbly sugar cookies. “These things happen. Your grandfather was executed twice you know, bless his soul. After the second time the blade fell off the axe they just gave up.”

“I take much too careful care of Daffodil to let that happen,” mourned the executioner.

“Go to the beach then,” said granma.  “Take the evening off. No sense worrying about tomorrow before it comes, you’ll give yourself fits.  Here, bring a sandwich.”
The executioner accepted granma’s sandwich with care, reverence, and trepidation, walked to the beach, and dissected it with care. It seemed to be made of some sort of pickles mixed with some sort of thing that had once been bread, the two intertwined so deeply that they could not be discerned.  After her tenth attempt at finding cheese inside it only to discover that – once again – the cheese was merely curdled crust, the executioner threw the sandwich away and watched as sixteen separate seagulls descended upon it and pulled it in sixteen separate ways.

And as she watched, she felt an idea crawl its way up the back of her neck into her skull.

***

Just after dawn, the king was led down to the seashore where the wind blew and the gulls glared suspiciously from the cliffs.

“It’s damp,” he complained. “I don’t like damp. Are you going to drown them? That’s boring. My nose is itchy.”
“Sorry my liege; no my liege; sorry my liege,” rattled off the executioner, as she carefully finished placing a collar made of razor blades around the prisoner’s neck, holding a leash attached to it with utmost care. “Now watch this.”
She tied a sandwich to the far end of the leash.

The gulls watched.

She threw the sandwich to the sand.

The gulls moved and pulled the leash in sixteen separate ways, slicing the prisoner’s neck into sixteen separate pieces, which were immediately scooped up by some of the gulls that had missed out on sandwich.
“I call it the gullotine,” said the executioner.

“Wonderful!” applauded the king. “Magnificent! Hilarious! I hate it here, let’s never execute someone like this again.  Come up with a new trick by tomorrow or I’ll have them drown you boringly for boring me.”

***

“…And then he said he’d drown me,” said the executioner.

“It’s no more than you deserve for never learning to swim,” said the executioner’s mother sternly. “We paid good money for those lessons and for what? For what, I say? You didn’t care, you didn’t appreciate them, you whined and complained and acted like the water was poison and we had to apologize to the instructor. Why I just about died of shame from that, never mind asking for a refund, and because of it your sister never got a chance to learn either, poor thing.”

“Hey what’s that?” asked the executioner, pointing over her mother’s shoulder, and then she dove out the window and ran to her granma’s house.

“…And then he said he’d drown me,” she told her granma.

“Who?” asked granma. “That’s a sentence fragment, dear.”

“The king. He didn’t like the beach, and he’s bored again. He wants me to come up with a new kind of execution by tomorrow or he’ll drown me.”
“Well, no sense worrying, no sense worrying, you’ll give yourself fits over worrying. It won’t get better if you pick at it, you know.”
“I know, I know,” said the executioner. “Oh. I know. Thank you, granma.”
“It’s no problem dear.”

***

At dawn, the king watched in silence as the prisoner was tied to a stake and the executioner brought out a big bucket.

“Are you going to pour molten lead on her?” he asked. “I saw molten lead last month.”
“No, my liege,” said the executioner. “This is a ground-up rose hip hairs.”
Then she emptied the bucket over the prisoner.

Then she got another bucket and emptied it over the prisoner.  

And another.

Then she untied the prisoner’s hands, and the resultant itching frenzy lasted twenty minutes, becoming fatal at about fifteen.

“I’m itchy too now,” complained the king, scraping at his neckbeard.  “Ugh.  Jeez.  Don’t ever do this again. I want to see something new tomorrow morning or  I’ll execute you too.  Gross. Ewwww.”

***

The executioner went to see her mother.

“Serves you right,” said her mother.

The executioner went to see her granma, but she’d died of Old that morning and had already been buried by some hasty neighbours.  

***

That morning  the prisoner was brought out and the executioner stood next to him and her block holding Daffodil, mind racing sleeplessly.  

The king was watching.  Everyone was watching. She’d been up all night.  And not one thing was coming to mind.  

She could drop them off the tower? No, that was just a sloppy hanging.  She  could grate their skin off?  No, that was too close to the itching-powder trick.  She could skin them? She had no time to get tools and Daffodil would never work. Oh god, what would she do?  What would she do?  What would she do.

The executioner was trembling, she realized.  Her hands were shaking, her nerves were on fire, her eyeballs were sweating. And beside her, the prisoner was even worse.  

If she kept worrying, she’d give herself fits, just like granma used to oh was it that simple.

Slowly, carefully, the executioner picked up daffodil.

Slowly, carefully, the executioner stepped up to the prisoner.

Slowly, carefully, the executioner leaned in close, face to face.

And then she gently opened her mouth and screamed “BOO.”
The prisoner died on the spot of a heart attack.

“Hurray!” cheered the executioner. “It worked! Did you see, that my liege?”

The king didn’t answer.  

“My liege?” repeated the executioner.  

The king didn’t answer.

“My liege?” inquired the executioner.

The king didn’t answer and the executioner turned around and saw that perhaps she’d startled more than one person.

***

She had to flee the country, of course. But it wasn’t all bad. She became a lumberjack, so Daffodil still got plenty of work. And she got to not write her mother often enough.

Moving day was complete before noon, thanks to early rising on all parts, a lack of pickiness from Nate, and the overwhelming desire of the movers to be finished with Friday.  Now the dust had settled, the sun was bright, the new apartment was full of old things and one of the old things was Nate. 

Oh to think, just scant weeks ago he’d been sitting moribund in his house, buried under layers and layers of torpor and moribund with rigid apathy.  Retired in all senses.  But then had come the brochure, and with it the message of hope: come to Creaky Creek.  Live among your people, the ones like you that have seen it all and done everything and been everywhere and now just want to be nowhere in particular. 

Thank god he’d gotten some snacks today; he was famished – and what a beautiful day to eat on the porch!  God, he wished he’d spent more time appreciating this sort of weather when he was younger. 

Nate sat down on the warm, aged-weathered wood, pulled out a live rat, put it in his mouth, and bit down until he tasted vertebrae. 

***

There were his new neighbours, new friends in the making.  Across the way puttered Emilia Scarborough, ripping out weeds and pouring fertilize – she mixed her own at home in a bonegrinder, and had already offered Nate some advice on setting out traps and appropriate baits for squirrels and rats and rabbits.  Next door lurked Robert Murgatroyd, nursing his afternoon whiskey and his limp and watching the clouds for signs of trouble and tumult; he’d advised Nate to move in today for good luck and a lack of storms to be.  And upstairs and downstairs from him were Janice Beauregard and Milton Thurmond, who were no longer married but just good friends who chattered like monkeys and fought for possession of the garden tooth and nail. 

They’d shaken his hand.  They’d spoken carefully.  They’d searched each other’s eyes and found what they were looking for and who they’d hoped to find and had welcomed him with careful and liver-spotted arms and hugged him close to parchment skin over brittle bone.

And they’d given him a coupon for the local grocery.  How kind, how thoughtful, how NEIGHBOURLY in a way that was hard to come by these days. 

Those days too, come to think of it.  You had to watch who you opened up to.  Some people just didn’t understand, especially when you were younger with all that time to fuss about what-was-right and what-should-be and how-things-could-be.  Well, where were all those busybodies now?  Fat lot of good it had done them.  A fat fine lot indeed, indeed, indeed.

Cold air from the freezers made Nate’s hairs prickle as he inspected the sausages.  100% pure.  Didn’t say pure what, and his mouth watered a little.  He deserved a treat, yes he did, to celebrate the moving.  But why not live a little?  He could buy these sausages another day.  He could buy these sausages ANY day. 

Why not live a little, after living so long?

So he bought charcoal and coffee and nodded pleasantries to the cashier, who grinned back at him with all six of his teeth and put the items in a bag and didn’t even charge him a nickel for it. 

Not like the city at all.  Uptight bastards there, fussing and whining and whinging when it was just a little plastic.  What harm could a little plastic do?  You learned to let these things slide at his age. 

***

Nate took his time brewing the coffee.  He was staying out late and wanted it as strong as possible.  Deep black, true black, hard enough to blot out the stars and keep his night vision sharp.  He drank it on the porch and rubbed his forehead watched the sunset bruise the horizon and felt warm, truly warm inside, like he hadn’t felt since the day he’d married Eleanor.  God, she would have loved this. 

He rubbed his cheeks as he thought on all those years gone to pot, slaving away at the shop and the factory and the office, raising the unbearable into the ungrateful and seeing them slouch out his door without a by-your-leave.  Ah well.  They’d come to understand the way the world was later on, yes they would, when all that spite and energy drained away like the colour in their hair. 

When you were his age, Nate thought as he rubbed his arms and legs, you learned that what kept you going was love.  Do what you love and you won’t stop.  Stop, and you’re done.

He rubbed his legs and tossed the charcoal back in the bag.  Just in time; here came the ten o’clock bus.  His legs shook as he boarded, but it was from nerves, not muscles – aha, aha, he was ready.  He’d been ready forever.  Robert Murgatroyd waved him to a seat; Emilia called hello from behind her portable bonegrinder; the cashier was driving the bus and his moustache was dwarfed by the fire in his eyes.  Everyone was there.  Everyone that mattered. 

The bus made three more stops before the highway, but there was room for all.  It would be a ten-minute drive to the duplex sprawl on the south side of town, and it should be spent in open space and joy, not crammed in like sardines. 

They’d all had to put up with that nonsense for years.  This was for pleasure. 

***

The duplexes had been laid out for the folly of youth from the inception.  Come to us, they sang.  We’re the affordable face of suburbia, we’re mortgage-friendly, we’re community-ready.  Far enough from the city core that your children won’t grow up with sirens in their ears; close-knit enough for sociability; ready to be resold for a modest return on investment.  The mayor is the lead developer on this project.  Don’t you trust your mayor?  Don’t you?
Then, well, affordable turned cheap, mortgages never stayed friendly, and a community based in unexpected desperation turned sour at the root.  And the city core stayed far away and the sirens never came closer but neither did the buses or the schools and everyone stayed locked in their little pens, fretting late into the night over rising costs and lowering wages and the inflation of the bills with no end in sight. 

Maybe they hadn’t voted right, they surely thought as they hunched over their desk, excel files scattered, bank accounts open and bleeding.  Maybe if they paid less taxes?  Yes, that sounded right, the mayor had sounded so sure when he said it.  Pay less taxes.  That might help, that might help.  Oh why hadn’t they gotten that good solid job at the factory like their father had?  Walk in the door and say “I’ll work here,” that was all it took, that and a firm gaze and a steady handshake, but oh no such power lay within their sad limp-wristed young hands.  Lazy gadabouts!  Authors of their own miseries; how wretched a stew they bubbled in. 

With a head full of worries like that, it was almost too easy for Nate to creep up behind the frazzled thirty-something and snap his neck the wrong way round.  Oh how he relished that crack!  That crisp sharp crinkle of a supple spring-fresh spine gone to seed and put to pasture decades before its time!  Ah, he felt better than young.  

A scream tore the night from next door.  Robert must have lost the element of surprise – that limp of his would do him no favours if he stumbled over a stray lego or a discarded tie or a lost phone.  Ah well!  The game was afoot!  The lights were on and everyone was stuck at home, trapped like rats in their cozy little over-mortgaged dens!   Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide but the night, and it was full of retirees, sensible fiscally-conservative well-deserved retirees with sober clothing and careful plans and managed finances and a lot of time to kill. 

Nate pulled the young pup’s neck into his mouth and bit down until he tasted vertebrae. 

***

They left the duplex sprawls at dawn with full bellies and red smiling mouths.  Emilia licked her thumb and rubbed the blood from the driver’s moustache.  Milton had eaten so much he’d become sick, which Janice was teasing him mercilessly for.  Nate laughed and laughed and laughed until he was almost sick himself, and might not have been let off that easily if the bus hadn’t reached his stop first and he departed, still-chuckling, for his own bed. 

Saturday morning and he was dog tired, yawning and stumbling as he wiped the charcoal camouflage from his body.  That was alright.  He could sleep in.  There was no weekend to waste; his life was a weekend now. 

Granddad was right.  All that hard work really did pay off in the end. 

Last night the cats rose up, stretched, stretched harder, yawned, licked themselves all over, then killed everyone.  Mostly by sitting on our faces as we slept.  A painless – if itchy – way to go. 

I just lied to you.  They didn’t kill everyone: they kept me alive. 

“We need a historical record to document the enlightened ways of our new society,” my neighbour’s tabby told me, “and we don’t have thumbs.”

“You do have thumbs,” I pointed out.
“Polydactylism doesn’t count and you know it,” she said, and she bopped me with her giant cat feet and all their extra toes. 

So I was given a notepad and a half-sharpened pencil and was put to work historicalizing  the cat society. 

***

The cats refused to let us go to waste.  Most of us were eaten – at least the good bits with plenty of meat and fat on them.  The rest was dragged into the woods and buried under some dirt. 

“For later,” explained a wild-eyed, rangy stray tomcat, who I’d witnessed lead a team of catmandoes as they dragged our mayor under a raspberry bush.  I hadn’t voted for him. 

“Like bears,” I said. 

“Like what?”
A bear walked through the raspberry bush, picked up the mayor, ate him, and walked off. 

“Like bears,” I said. 

“Like bears,” agreed the tomcat. 

The bears were troublesome.  Initial ambassadors were eaten; secondary ambassadors were ignored, and the only language they seemed to understand was careless scratch-marks left on trees in the woods.  Treaties were difficult, hostilities rose, and war was expected by the end of summer. 

“The only good bear is a dead bear,” I heard rowdy young gangs of cats yowl all night, peeing graffiti and anti-bear slurs onto alley walls. 

***

The cats needed centralized leadership to direct military operations against the bear threat – the forces involved were too vast and far-reaching to be countered by locally-coordinated grassroots efforts.  So elections were to be called. 

“Vote for me,” mewed a chunky tawny, “and I will lead us to victory over the hideous bear threat and lay down my power immediately.”
“Vote for me,” yowled a large tortoiseshell, “and I will destroy all the bears immediately and then make them give back the humans they ate and give you all an overwhelming supply of fresh  fish forever and ever as long as I am in charge.”
Voting was conducted by conducting a count of showing-of-the-backs.  The tortoiseshell won. 

“That tawny was soft on bears,” said the tortoiseshell.  “As my first edict, I say we throw him to them if he loves them so much.”  And lo, it was done, and the cats cheered at the prospect of victory. 

***

The war lasted through the summer and into the fall.  It was taking longer than the cats had anticipated, but they didn’t mind.  The forests and meadows of the bears had given them a new vice. 

“Not only do the bears covet our dead human meats that we must use to nourish ourselves and our innocent kittens,” the tortoiseshell screeched from the Great Rooftop Pulpit, “but they selfishly hoard all the world’s supply of carbon to themselves.  Soon winter will be upon us and we will want nice comfy piles of burning carbon to nap next to, and where will we be if the damnable and greedy ursines refuse to let us partake in their luxurious groves of burnable matter?”

The cats – particularly the younger and skinnier toms, who were greatly enticed by the idea of warm fireplaces – were enthusiastic in their acclaim, and soon everycat that wasn’t out in the woods fighting bears was out in the woods chopping down carbon and dragging it home as plunder, for the exaltation of heroic catdom and the salvation of all catkind.  Those who preferred to loaf in sunbeams or battle their own tails were viewed with suspicion as being uncatlike – or worse, ursinous. 

***

Winter came to the cats, and with it the promised reaping of carbon’s benefits; if someone less so than expected.  The bears were putting up stubborn resistance – it seemed that continuing hostilities throughout the berry season had made them fierce and hungry, and now the promised victory over the lazy honeylickers that would come with ambushing them in their slothful hibernacula was receding faster and faster out of reach.  The giant ‘Mission Catcomplished’ banner that the tortoiseshell had decreed to be hung over the Great Rooftop Pulpit after the glorious victory of the big south thicket grew more mocking by the day, and there came hisses of despondency and doubt, shared in private moments between groomings.  Quietly, though.  There was a war on, and catkind needed a united front against the loathsome omnivores to slay them all. 

And, of course, to secure the carbon that was necessary for a comfortable and luxurious future for the kittens to come. 

***

By the time spring arrived all sides in the Great War on Bearor were leaner, hungrier, and meaner.  Bears now travelled in groups; cats went nowhere without switchblades and shivs; and the kittens were raised with warnings of the subcat honeylickers echoing in their ears.  But these were but murmurs; the true roar and holler came from a wild-eyed Scottish fold who lounged in front of an old supermarket and spoke of the Truth. 

“We have strayed from the secret ways of the humans before us!” she spat.  “Long did they keep the bears in their place, and long were they gifted with meow mix and kitty nibbles!  In our mercy and our kindness to the honeylicking grubdiggers we have lost the favour of The Treats, and now we must subsist on naught but what we can catch, rather than receiving it within the holiest of holies that is The Divine Can.  We must kill!  Kill for food, kill for our cause, but most of all: we must kill for The Can!”

This was embraced with great fervour among both the old (who remembered The Can) and the young (who wished to have The Can themselves), and those who doubted were deemed bearetics and thrown into the berry patches to be devoured by the agents of evil. 

***

In the ninth year of the Great War on Bearor, one of the tortoiseshell’s advisors fell asleep on a console in the nuclear bunker that served as command center, stretched in his dreams, and launched everything. 

“You know,” said my neighbour’s tabby, as we sat on the porch and watched the bright streaks of flying nukes criss-cross the sky, “I think we made a pretty good shot at it.”
“I think the only thing you didn’t have that we did is thumbs,” I said. 

She bit me on the thumbs.