Raining Cats and Dogs

"Well, time to go check the lines."

Brutus rose to his feet and waited for a response from his second in command. There was a pause before White Fang replied in a husky voice, as though befuddled with sleep.

"But sir, it's the middle of the night."

"Exactly," grinned Brutus, his canines glittering in the light of the lantern, "And cats are nocturnal. If they attack at all, it will be now, when the darkness is to their advantage."

"It's raining too," protested Fang, although he moved to get up and join his captain. "Listen to that. By the sound of it, raining mice and men. Cats hate getting wet, you know."

"And they know we know it, Fang. Come on, up and at ‘em. The sentries don't have pup tents like you and they could use a little cheer."

Fang was ready at last and the two old warriors went out into the pouring blackness beyond the tent flap. The rain was not heavy but persistent and they were soaked to the skin in seconds. Brutus waited until his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and then began to pace carefully from the center of the camp, heading for the line of trenches that ringed the hilltop. Behind him there was a sound of slipping and a splash.

"What's up, Fang?" Brutus smiled to himself. "Fell in a poodle?"

Fang appeared beside him, dripping and shivering. "Damn foxhole," he growled. "Just let me find the cur that dug that one and I'll make him wish he'd never been sired."

"You might be grateful for it later, if things get rough. Any hole will do, as they say."

"That's about rabbit hunting, as you well know," answered Fang. "And this is no rodent chase we're on tonight."

"True enough," said Brutus, "But we'll make those felines run like rabbits come the morning. Oh, they'll hop to it alright."

He walked on in the direction of the trenches and Fang, after shaking himself, followed disconsolately in his paw prints.

In a trench some way down the hillside they came upon a young dog shivering but staring dutifully out into the darkness. Brutus jumped down beside him.

"It's Basset, isn't it? I remember you from obedience classes. Weren't you the one who had trouble with left and right?"

"Yessir," said Basset, shivering now from the presence of his commander as much as the cold. "But I've learned a lot since then. I was only a pup, sir."

"Of course you have, my boy," said Brutus. "And how goes the night? Anything moving out there?"

"Not that I can see, sir. And with all this rain, I can't smell a thing except water and mud."

"Well, it might discourage any attack they have planned. You know how cats are about water." Brutus smiled and added, "Ever seen a drowned cat, Basset?"

The young dog laughed. "Yessir. And a pretty sorry sight it was too."

"Well, that's all we have to worry about tonight. If you see any drowned cats out there, give us a yelp, okay?"

"Yes sir!" barked Basset, suddenly brighter and more alert.

"That's the spirit, boy," said Brutus. "And don't you worry, well have them on the run when day comes." He patted the young dog on the shoulder and moved on down the trench. Fang followed above, not wanting to renew his acquaintance with the mud and slush of his recent experience.

Out of the darkness of the far end of the trench a voice growled suddenly. "Halt! Who goes there?"

Brutus coughed once and answered. "Oh, that's a load of bull. Terry...er...it is Terry, isn't it?"

Another young dog emerged from the deep shadows and saluted. "Sah!" he barked.

"Alright, alright, enough of that," Brutus hushed him. "You'll have the whole catload down on our necks, shouting like that. Never give away your position, soldier."

"No sir," replied Terry in a quieter voice, his tail drooping with uncertainty.

Brutus reassured him. "Okay, stand easy, Terry. Good to see you're awake and watching."

And so the commander progressed through the lines, going to each post, encouraging, comforting, bolstering. Each trooper that he left was that much braver, that much more alert and ready for action. Fang watched with approval, forgetting his own misery as he watched his superior's dogged concentration on his task.

And then, as Brutus completed his tour of the circle of defenses, a screech went up from the blackness beyond the lines and the night was torn with catcalls and jeering.

"Oh, Fido, never you see the puppy farm again!"

"Here doggie, doggie, here come your doggie din dins."

"Hey, Spotty, we come hound you now!"

"We light your tail, doggies, and you go woof, woof!"

"Scratch one more dirty doggie!"

All along the lines angry barks and shouts went up; stung by the insults and frantic to get at their enemies, the dogs strained against the leash of their orders and yelled their defiance at the taunting cats. Brutus hurried along, calming here, ordering silence there, determined that no headstrong rush into folly would ensue. He was too late to prevent one soldier, a crazed spaniel, who sprang from the trench and went bounding into the night. The yelps and screams that followed told their own story.

In the silence that followed, a silence made emptier by the constant sounds of the rain, Brutus found himself next to a trooper clearly distressed by the events of the last few moments. "Steady, boy," said Brutus quietly. "We'll sort them out in the morning."

"He was my friend," said the soldier, blinking to hide his tears.

"I know, son. I can tell." Brutus was a rock of self control and now he turned the dog's mind to other things. "Where are you from?"

"Boston, sir," came the reply, the voice steadier with thoughts of happier times.

"You make your mom and dad proud of you, boy. Keep steady and see how we skin a cat in the morning."

"Yessir. I'll try." And then he grinned. "Every dog has his day, sir."

Later, back in the tent, Fang spoke to his commander of the night and its events. "That was a close call, Brutus. They nearly snapped, you know."

Rufus shrugged. "I know, Fang. And one did and we heard what happened. That would have been all of us if we hadn't held on. In fact..." He looked up at Fang from where he lay, exhausted.

"That was damn nearly a spaniel in the works."