Fighting Tom (Jerry the Kat series)

  With that, we spread out around the room, alerting at bags stashed under tables, in chairs and even a purple gym bag hidden near the dining room’s plastic palm tree. With each successful find, Owens rewarded the Tom with a cat niblet.

  Sergeant Sanders watched with growing disgust. “I’ve had about all I can take of these flea-bitten vermin,” he snapped. Grabbing his crossword puzzle, he stomped off towards the door.

  Cats scurried out of the storming sergeant’s way. Flustered, Blackberry’s short legs propelled him not away but right into the barreling sergeant’s path.

  Thunk!

  The sickening sound of army-boot-meeting cat reverberated through room. A second thud sounded as Blackberry landed a good five feet away from where Sanders kicked him. Without a backward glance, the Army sergeant continued his course towards the door only to be met by a charging Private Owens.

  “Stop!” thundered Owens. “You can’t bully my cats.”

  I’d never seen Owens like that. His face turned beet red and his hands clenched into fists. “Harley, we’ve got to stop Owens before he punches Sanders,” I hissed. Sanders outranked Owens, and I knew Owens, even if provoked, would be in big trouble if he fought the Sergeant.

  While Harley and I headed towards Owens, Rex and Ginger Jam checked on Blackberry.

  “He’s okay. Just a little shook up,” Rex shouted to us, as he helped the fallen cat.

  “Thank heavens!” I shouted as Harley and I raced towards Owens.

  Owens danced around Sanders, fists raised, ready to do battle to protect his Toms.

  Sanders looked at the Private in disgust. Before Harley and I could reach the two men, Saunders reared his fist back, and punched Owens, square on the nose. Owens’ nose was no match for the sergeant’s beefy fist. Staggering backward, the Private crashed into the palm tree sending it and him to the ground. Blood spurted from Owen’s nose, as cats gathered around our fallen protector.

  Ignoring the mangled heap of soldier and palm, Sanders continued his stomp towards the exit. Just as he neared the doorway, a blur of blue-grey fur dashed between his legs. Caught off guard by Archangel’s roadblock, the big soldier stumbled, lost his balance, and crashed to the floor. A string of cuss words erupted from him, as he stood up and looked around for the offending cat.

  Not seeing Archangel, who was now safely on the other side of the room, he brushed off his uniform, and headed for the exit. Just before he left the room, he turned and snarled a departing threat, “Putting good working dogs out of a job. Those cats are an abomination to the Army. I’ll not have it! I’ll get those dang Toms if it’s the last thing I do!”

  With Sanders gone, we turned our attention to Owens.

  “Is he okay?” meowed Ginger Jam, as Harley gently pawed the Private.

  “I think so,” meowed back Harley, as he continued his gentle prodding of the dazed man. “It looks worse than it is with all that blood from his nose.”

  An off-duty soldier, who had been reading a book at a nearby table, helped Owens to his feet. Another soldier retrieved a towel from his gym bag and handed it to the Private to help stop the red river flowing from Owens’s nose.

  “My Gawd! What happened here?” shouted Sergeant Barnhard in horror, as she rushed through the mess hall doors and ran over to the site of the battle.

  Still a little dazed from Sanders’ punch, Owens just rocked back and forth, holding the now crimson towel to his injured snout. The cats answered for the speechless Private with a flood of meows.

  “All right, one cat a time,” she commanded. Looking around at the assembled Toms, her eyes landed on Harley. “Oh no! Harley, what happened to you, old boy? You’re bloody, too!”

  Regaining his voice, Private Owens responded, “I think it’s this darn nose. Harley was just trying to help me out. Sanders booted poor Blackberry half way across the cafeteria. That low-life has no business picking on my Toms!”

  “I know Sanders is miffed by his reassignment, but I didn’t think he’d stoop this low. But that still doesn’t explain this,” she said as she swept her hand around the room. The once upright palm tree lay in a heap on the floor; napkins and a half-finished hamburger were scattered on the floor near where Archangel tripped Sanders; and upended chairs dotted the area where the two Army men had quarreled.

  “And what about YOU!” added Barnhard. “You look like you’re the one Sanders kicked, not Blackberry. Do you need a doctor?”

  “Ah, Sarge. I’m okay, really,” a sheepish Owens replied. “I guess things got a little out of hand. I was just trying to protect the cats. Sanders had no right to go booting MY Toms!” Owens glanced nervously at the door as two military policemen entered the mess hall.

  “Well, then take YOUR Toms back to the classroom, while I get this place cleaned up, and deal with security,” she ordered, as she turned her backs on us and headed towards the policemen.

  Chapter 15 -- Obstacle Course. Take Two

  Barnhard and Owens doubled our training drills following the mess hall incident. We complied without complaint. We all wanted to prove Sergeant Sanders wrong, and show him that the Fighting Toms were just as good, if not better, than his precious military dogs.

  The tone in the barracks changed, too. Sergeant Sanders proved to be nothing more than a big bully. Bullies come in all sizes, shapes, and species. Cats can be bullies, too. We now met Kipling’s attempts to boss around the other Toms with indifference. The cats turned to Harley for guidance. Harley gave us encouragement to work harder and do better. Harley, not Kipling, emerged as the Fighting Toms’ leader.

  Harley even organized the Fighting Tom effort to help Ginger Jam. We took turns (all except Kipling), to sneak out each night with GJ so that he could practice the obstacle course. With each nighttime outing, he got better and better, gaining confidence as he mastered his fear. Ginger was like a big woolly caterpillar miraculously changing into a beautiful, graceful butterfly. Water-loving White-Paws even taught the orange tabby to swim!

  Kipling, on the other hand, appeared jumpier, even haunted, with each passing day. True to form, Kipling still taunted Ginger Jam, but now the cat just ignored the barbs. Archangel appeared to be the only Tom still in Kipling’s once sought after circle of friends. Even Archangel took a turn helping Ginger Jam train.

  “While I think it’s misplaced, I admire Archangel’s loyalty,” commented Harley, as he and I settled in for an evening nap after dinner.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Surely you’ve noticed, Jerry. Kipling can’t smell. Archangel finds the scent for that old Bengal cat. The two of them always work the drills together.”

  “I don’t believe it. The Army tested us BEFORE we joined the Fighting Toms. Remember the maze? Kipling wouldn’t have found his way through the maze if he couldn’t smell,” I countered.

  “I’m not sure if Kipling went through the maze test or not. Don’t forget, he IS General McDoodle’s cat. The General may have placed Kipling in the unit without ANY testing. If he weren’t such a pompous cat, I’d almost feel sorry for the bloke. As it is, he may just end up in the Fighting Toms and NOT be able to tell the difference between an old gym sock and a bomb. It won’t be safe for our soldiers if that cat gets out in the field and can’t do his job. We’ll have to think of something...”

  That was the last I heard as I drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, the barracks was abuzz with excitement and meowing cats.

  “Do you think he’ll make it?”

  “I’ll bet you my catnip mouse he sets a course record!”

  “Don’t forget, it was me who taught him to swim!”

  Ginger Jam, for his part, looked more than a little nervous.

  Right at nine o’clock, Private Owens entered the barracks and gathered us up for the trip to the courtyard. Sergeant Barnhard and Doc were already there.

  “Sarge, why put Ginger through this again? We all know GJ has the best nose of the Toms. Who cares if the cat
can run an obstacle course?” Owens asked.

  “General McDoodle’s orders are that every Fighting Tom must pass BOTH the scent test AND obstacle course. Really, it is for the cat’s own good. The General made a big deal about his Toms being able to scout out places dogs can’t reach. It’s important that each cat can climb, jump, and navigate obstacles they might encounter when working out in the field. Even in airports, the cats need to be able to climb around baggage to sniff out possible threats,” Barnhard explained.

  “I know, Sarge. I just think it a shame we got to put Ginger through this again,” Owens complained.

  “He looks like he’s ready,” observed Doc. “Why I think that cat has lost weight, too. GJ just might surprise you, Private.”

  Ginger Jam had lost weight. He looked sleeker and more muscular. Nothing like a little coaching from eight tomcats!

  GJ followed Sergeant Barnhard to the obstacle course start line, as the rest of us lined up along the course to cheer him on. “Ginger, I know you can do this. We all have faith in you. Just keep going, one paw after the other. Before you know it, you’ll be done! Ready. Set. Go!”

  He was off. Cats meowed encouragement from both sides of the course. Through the mousetraps, into the tunnel, and up the stairs to the pool. A hush fell as GJ hesitated at the water’s edge.

  With a deep breath, he carefully balanced on the beam and began walking, one paw after the other.

  The Fighting Toms took up a hushed chanting, “Ginger Jam. Ginger Jam. Ginger Jam…”

  Halfway across the beam, he wobbled, but regained his balance. Then disaster struck. Just within a cat’s leap from the end, he wobbled again. This time he wasn’t able to right himself. Splash! The orange tabby cat fell into the water.

  A collective gasp went up from the cats. Owens rushed poolside, ready to rescue the wet feline. “Look, Sarge. He’s swimming to the end!” he shouted.

  Sure enough, those swimming lessons with White Paws paid off. GJ reached the pool wall and heaved himself up and over the edge.

  “Woo Hoo!”

  “Way to go, GJ!”

  “Whad’ya know! You can swim almost as good as me!” shouted White Paws, as he strutted around the yard, proud of his protégé.

  “Quiet, lads. He still has to climb the wall,” Harley stilled our chatter.

  Shaking the water from his fur, GJ sprinted to the climbing wall and jumped. Safely on the first ledge, he climbed to the second and then the third. Reaching to pull himself to the fourth level, his paw missed. Down he tumbled into a heap at the wall’s base.

  “Fall down seven,” shouted Harley.

  “Get up eight,” the other cats shouted back. We meowed the new chant.

  Ginger Jam did just that. He shook himself off, again. This time not to rid his fur of water, but to shake away any doubt. Backing up, he made another run at the wall. To the first ledge, then the second, the third, and then up and over the top of the wall he climbed.

  “Hooray!”

  “He did it!”

  We swarmed the cat, slapping him of the back, and celebrating.

  “Private Owens, I’m sure glad you don’t have to take Sergeant Sanders out for a steak dinner,” commented Barnhard.

  “Uhh, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” stammered the Private.

  Barnhard smiled, replying, “I heard about your bet. It’s okay. Don’t worry. You’ve really worked hard getting these cats trained. You should be proud of them.”

  Chapter 16 – By a Nose

  “Just three more days to go before the big Fighting Toms demonstration. I overheard Sarge say our scent exam is today! I hope I do okay,” said a worried Rex, as he paced the barracks room.

  “I heard all the big brass will be there on Friday.”

  “Brass? Why are they having tubas at our demonstration,” asked a bewildered White Paws.

  “Dang it, White Paws. Don’t you know anything? Big brass aren’t musical instruments. The big brass are Generals and Colonels and other high ranking officers,” muttered Rex.

  “Doc mentioned a Senator would be there, too,” added Harley. The three-legged cat spent time with Doc every week, working on what he called ‘physical therapy.’ I’m not sure he needed any extra therapy, physical or otherwise. Having three instead of four legs didn’t seem to slow down the old army cat.

  “Stop pacing, old chap. You’ll do fine. Why just yesterday you found the target scent in that old rubbish bin. Any cat that can smell an explosive mixed in with trash will have no problem passing!” Harley said encouragingly to Rex.

  Rex was not the only cat looking nervous. The night before, I’d caught Kipling and Archangel whispering together after lights out.

  “Barnhard always hides more than one target cloth. With your nose, you shouldn’t have any problem finding a couple of the cloths. Pick one out for yourself, but also let ME know where to alert. You know, signal by tripping in front of the bag. I really appreciate it, Archangel. It’s not like I need help, it’s just these darn allergies.” To punctuate his ‘allergy’ problem, Kipling sneezed.

  Archangel nodded yes, but I couldn’t hear anything more as the two cats moved away toward the litter boxes. I wanted to tell Harley that he was right, that Kipling WAS having problems smelling. However, Harley, like all the other cats, was fast asleep in his cat bed. In the morning, Harley was too busy giving us a pep talk, so I didn’t have a chance to warn him about Kipling and Archangel’s plans.

  “Alright, Toms, line up. It’s exam day,” announced Owens as he strutted into the barracks room. All ten cats dutifully assembled at the door and followed the Private down the hall. When we reached the classroom, he threw open the door with a flourish.

  We entered. Stopped. And stared. Normally cluttered with bags and suitcases, the classroom was empty. Empty, except for the green rug in the center of the room.

  “Good morning, Toms! Today’s your final exam. Private Owens and I have a special surprise for you. Friday is the Fighting Toms’ demonstration. We thought it only fair for you to get a chance to check out the area, so we have special permission from General McDoodle to conduct your final exam there. It’s in the building next door, the same area where the military dogs get their training. The building has been designed to look like the inside of an airport, complete with a security check point and baggage claim.”

  “This is an individual test. Each cat will enter the baggage claim area on their own. Your job will be to find three of the ten bags laced with the test scent. I’m confident you can do it! Okay cats, follow me.” With that, the Sergeant led us from the classroom, outside into the sunlit courtyard, and into the building next door.

  Normally, Kipling pushed his way to the front, demanding to lead us wherever we went. But not today. I could hear Archangel and him furiously whispering at the back of our group. Barnhard and Owens’ new test format had thrown a serious monkey wrench into their plan.

  One of the last cats to enter the building, I bumped into Blackberry as my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room.

  “Watch it!” the short-legged cat snapped.

  Watch it, I did. Blinking, I stared in amazement at the room before us. I’d never been to an airport, but I didn’t imagine airports looked like this! Orange, red, blue, black, and even a few flowered suitcases went round on a circular conveyor belt, like a merry-go-round of luggage. Off to the side, two long rows of bags lined up like soldiers in formation. In another area, an elevated table held more boxes and bags.

  Talk about finding a needle in a haystack. How were we to find anything in this jumble of luggage? I was beginning to think Kipling wasn’t the only cat that was in trouble today!

  “Everyone, gather around,” commanded Sarge. She was joined by Private Owens and three more army soldiers, all privates, like Owens.

  “Privates Perry, Adams, and Fraser are here to help us.” As she introduced the soldiers, they smiled and waved. “They’re from the canine unit, so be nice to them or they’ll feed
you to the German shepherds,” she added with a laugh

  Next to me, Oslo gulped. “She is joking, isn’t she?” he asked nervously.

  “Shhh. Sarge is talking,” I hissed back.

  “…look all over, Toms. The marked bags may be anywhere in our little indoor airport. Once you find the smell, sit down in the alert position. Find just three, and you’re officially a fully trained Fighting Tom. Oh, almost forgot to mention, this is a timed test. You have just 15 minutes. The Privates are here to escort you back to the barracks as you finish. As I said earlier, this is an individual test, so you’ll all have to wait in that room over there until it’s your turn.”

  A haunted look pinched Kipling’s once fierce face. I thought I saw him shake ever so slightly.

  Owens ushered us to the waiting room.

  “Alright, chaps. This is it. Just relax and treat this like you do all our exercises. You’ll do just fine,” encouraged Harley. “Don’t be nervous. Be like Ginger Jam on that obstacle course and show them that Fighting Tom spirit!”

  Private Owens interrupted Harley’s pep talk as he entered the room for the first Tom. “Sarge, wants you to go in alphabetical order, so Archangel, I guess you’re first.”

  Archangel answered up with a meow and followed the man out the room.

  Blackberry paced, waiting nervously for Owens’ return. Harley and Kipling talked in hushed meows in the back corner of the room. I’m not proud of it, but I did creep a little closer to see if I could hear what the two cats were saying.

  “….sorry, old chap. You’ve been with the Army long enough to know your duty,” Harley meowed quietly.

  “…don’t make me beg….”

  “…wish there was something I could do….”

  “…another unit maybe?”

  “…disgrace…”

  I could only catch snippets of their conversation. Kipling looked frantic and Harley distressed. Before the two cats could finish, Owens was at the doorway calling for Harley. The normally cheerful British cat sadly glanced back at us as he left the room.

  Owens came for me a short time later. It was tough, but I found the scent in an orange suitcase, in a smelly gym bag, and in a black bag used to carry golf clubs. Back at the barracks, I found Harley.