Crisis in Crittertown (5 page)

Nonfiction waved his paw, and General History sat down again. “Probably not first in the world. But sooner than many others.” He added, “It fits with my theory.”

“What's that?” Nilla asked. “Why now? How is it possible? What does it mean?”

“Excellent questions, my dear,” Nonfiction said. Then he explained, “I believe The Change has something to do with human communication devices, like telephones, computers, and televisions. What does your leader think?”

Grayson said, “Brownback wants to gather more facts first.”

Nonfiction smiled. “He's a mouse after my own heart.”

Nilla whispered, “Huh?”

I shrugged. “Why would Brownback be ‘after' Nonfiction's heart?”

Poetry said, “That expression means Grandpa thinks he and Brownback are alike.”

She looked even prettier up close. I wanted to say something. But Grayson spoke up first. “What's poetry?”

Her laughter was musical. “I guess you wouldn't see poems at the post office. Poetry is a special kind of writing. Sometimes it rhymes. Often, poetry has language that paints pictures in your mind and makes you feel strong emotions.”

“Like the words to a song?” I asked.

Poetry smiled. “Song lyrics are poems set to music.”

I blurted out, “I like the music on Mike's radio! Mike's the postmaster.”

A scruffy mouse declared, “Music's the best thing people do!”

General History scoffed. “You would think so. But it's just fancy noise.”

“
All
subjects are important,” Nonfiction declared. Then he turned to Grayson. “Our guests must be interested in certain subjects.”

Grayson nodded. “We want to learn about Crittertown.”

Local History looked even older than Nonfiction. He began in a slow, dry voice, “Crittertown…was…founded in…the year…1791…by…”

Grayson interrupted. “Um…I was thinking more about the places in town.”

Nilla and I knew he was trying hard not to say “places that could support a soon-to-be-homeless colony.” I struggled to recall a name from the greeting line of mice. It was a subject I thought might help us. “Not Local History, more…”

General History prompted, “Geography?”

Nilla sighed. “Gee-what-a-free?”

White-muzzled Dictionaries defined geography, but that only confused Nilla more. “Continents? Countries?”

General History jumped up. “It's maps and mountains, rivers, roads, food sources, borders, and clans.”

Nonfiction leveled his gaze on Grayson. “Tell us what you're looking for, so we can narrow your search.”

Nilla whispered, “You might as well. Soon the whole town will know.”

Grayson nodded. “The post office plans to close the Crittertown office. Our colony must find a new home.”

The library mice gasped, then started chattering. Amid that babble of squeaks, I caught a few phrases. “Not good for the town…,” “…post office is the hub…,” and “They better not want to live here!”

Mystery wondered, “What's the motive for such a cruel crime?”

Humor laughed. “You see plots behind everything.”

Economics asserted, “It's about money. Everything human comes down to money.”

Cookbooks suddenly shouted, “I smell a ca…” Before she finished that dreaded word, Dot leaped onto the encyclopedia! Her tail lashed. Her eyes glowed. Her sharp fangs shone like daggers. Every mouse scattered, tripping over rolling acorns.

General History commanded, “Follow me!”

In the semi-darkness, the brown mouse seemed to run right into a book pile. At the last second, I saw the narrow gap between stacks. We slipped in after General History. Behind us, Dot chattered and chased the stragglers.

My heart pounded. General History seemed oddly calm. “Dot likes exercise after dinner. She'll nap again soon.”

Dot leaped onto Cookbook's tail. The chubby mouse turned to bite the cat's paw. Dot lifted it, leaving Cookbooks free to run—and be pounced at again! Dot's paws landed on either side of the terrified chef. General History darted out to distract Dot, while Cookbooks escaped.

Dictionaries emerged from the shadows. “Dot rarely kills or even draws blood. Did you know the meow word for ‘mouse' means ‘delicious toy'?” I shuddered. He added, “In the ancient human language called Sanskrit, the word for ‘mouse' means ‘to steal.'”

I only half-listened as Dictionaries tried to explain ancient languages to Nilla. I even almost forgot Dot. Here was a clue to the mystery. Humans hate mice because to them, we aren't brave foragers feeding hungry families; we are thieves! If this were true, I wondered what, if anything, could be done about it.

As General History predicted, Dot soon went back upstairs. Nonfiction emerged from an old envelope box. Four soldiers followed him, carrying a large piece of folded paper. Nonfiction told Grayson, “This is a map of Crittertown. Shall we study it together?”

With great ceremony, the four soldiers stepped backward to unfold the map. Soon all of Crittertown spread out before us. Mike sometimes showed this map to people who asked for directions. It listed the roads in Crittertown, and had squiggles for rivers and blobs for lakes.

Nilla gasped. “I had no idea the town was so big!”

“Fifty-eight streets on Route 1; thirty-seven on Route 2,” I muttered.

Nonfiction said, “I didn't know that. Thank you, Cheddar.”

Grayson began, “In all this area there must be some place for our colony.”

Poetry's sweet voice suggested, “Couldn't we make room here?”

After Dot's evening friskies, my desire to live in the library had departed faster than Express Mail.

Nonfiction sighed. “If we increased our numbers, Miss Davis might bring in a younger cat, set traps, or even call an exterminator.” He whispered to a soldier, who scurried off. Then he said, “Have you been to the Crittertown Bed and Breakfast?”

Nilla replied, “I know what a bed is and I love breakfast, but…”

Dictionaries recited, “A B&B is a private home where travelers stay, like at a hotel. Breakfast is included in the cost of lodging.”

The absent soldier returned with some slick paper balanced on his head.

Nonfiction announced, “Here's the B&B's brochure.”

Grayson and Nilla bent over the booklet. Grayson said, “What a big house! Ten bedrooms, four bathrooms, dining room, breakfast ‘nook,' whatever that is…”

Nilla read, “This quaint farmhouse was built in 1937. That's old, right? There should be plenty of holes!”

Cookbooks said, “Our scouts report delicious smells. And Mrs. Hill, the lady who owns the place with her husband, is always checking out cookbooks. The food must be superb!”

Grayson asked, “Your scouts haven't entered?”

Nonfiction replied, “We have rules about avoiding human contact. The less they see us, the less chance of extermination.”

Grayson turned a page. “Look! Vegetable and herb gardens, and a grape arbor! I love grapes!”

Acorns stirred in my stomach. This reminded me of the Crittertown Market, because it seemed too good to be true. “Have your scouts smelled or seen a colony?”

Nonfiction turned to General History. “I don't recall reports of a colony, do you?”

General History replied, “A large dog lives outside and barks a lot.”

“No cat?” Nilla asked.

The general shook his head. “Just the noisy dog.”

Nilla smiled. “Let's go now! There's hardly any traffic, plenty of darkness to hide in, and…” her voice dropped to a whisper. “…I'd rather not stay here with that cat pouncing around.”

I couldn't have agreed more!

Grayson told Nonfiction, “We'll return when we have news. Meanwhile, thank you for your kindness and help.”

General History said, “We can escort you across Main Street.” Then he told two of his soldiers to “confirm that Dot is napping.”

When these scouts returned, one reported, “We approached within three tail-lengths, and Dot didn't wiggle as much as a whisker.”

I took one last look at Poetry before following my friends. General History led us through a crack in the foundation. We soon inhaled the chill of the quiet night.

General History pointed across and a little further up Main Street. “That's the B&B.”

By moonlight and street lamp, the pavement looked shiny and black. Our paws rushed over its cool surface.

This crossing hardly felt scary. Maybe I was getting used to it—or my mind was deliciously distracted by thoughts of the cheese we might find in the B&B's gourmet kitchen.

“Come on!” Grayson urged. “This could be it. We could be heroes—the mice who saved our colony!”

Nilla whispered. “Shh!”

I was too breathless to squeak. So I just tugged Grayson's tail.

He sighed. “I know, Cheddar: Be cautious, take it slow, and…”

“Be quiet!” Nilla hissed.

But it was too late!

Chapter 6  
The Noisy Dog

“Bow wow wow, WOOF!” Barks erupted from the small house in front of the B&B.

“Shh! Nice doggie. No need to wake every predator in town,” I cooed.

The dog stopped barking. “What did you say?”

I replied, “Please be quiet. We mean you no harm.”

The dog burst out laughing. “Mice do harm. You're funny!”

“Please,” I said. “We're…on an important mission.”

The dog looked from me to Grayson and Nilla. Then he burst out laughing again. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's just…” He laughed a little more before finishing, “…you're so little and funny!”

At least that's what I think he said. It was hard to pick out the words in his barks.

“This needn't concern you,” Grayson began. “We simply want to explore the B&B.”

The dog flopped on the ground and shook his head. “Not allowed.”

Grayson said, “I'm sorry. Your dog accent is so thick…”

The big beast took one paw and drew a circle in the sandy soil. Inside the circle, he scribbled an animal with a long nose, round ears, and a skinny tail.

Nilla guessed, “A mouse!”

The dog nodded. Then he drew a line through the circle. I recognized this symbol from posters. A line through something meant “no” to whatever was inside the circle, like “no flammable liquids allowed in the mail.” So I guessed, “No mice allowed?”

The dog barked, “That's right! No mice!”

Grayson wasn't impressed. “People always say that. But we go wherever we want.”

“Is there a cat?” Nilla asked.

The dog shook his head. “No animals allowed, not even me! Why do you think I sleep out here when my favorite people are in there? Because the Mrs. doesn't want any fur on the beds, the couches, the floor. She won't ‘spend her whole life vacuuming.'”

“Vacuuming?” Nilla asked.

“That noisy machine the cleaner uses to suck dirt out of the rugs,” I explained.

Nilla shuddered. “I hate that noise!”

The dog nodded, “Isn't it horrible?”

“The worst,” Grayson agreed.

Inspired by our mutual hatred of vacuum cleaners, the dog said, “My name's Buttercup.”

“Like the flower?” Nilla asked.

“Because I'm yellow,” the dog grumbled. I suppose he didn't like having such a girlish name.

“You don't look yellow,” I said. “You look more like the color of white cheddar cheese.” Then I added, “My name's Cheddar.”

The dog grinned. “I love cheese!”

“It's humanity's greatest invention,” I declared.

Buttercup looked thoughtful. “What about bacon?”

“Bacon's wonderful,” I agreed. “And pizza.”

“Ooh, pizza!” In his excitement, Buttercup half-barked and half-spoke, but I understood. I'd never felt such fast friendship with anyone who wasn't a mouse.

Grayson said, “This is Nilla and I'm Grayson, grandson of the leader of the post office colony.”