by Rocky the Diabolical Cat

As Ikey and I stood observing the Ashcroft Youth meeting, we were approached by an older gentleman, the only adult human present.

“I’m the Chief Pederast, er, I mean, Pedagogical Advisor for this Ashcroft Youth Unit. You two look funny to me. For one thing, you’re little!” he said accusingly.

“Dwarfism,” I replied.

“You’re hairy!”

“Hirsutism.”

“And you’re not white!”

“I have a condition known as grayfurosity, my man. Now if you’ll kindly back off, we are trying to enjoy ourselves,” I hissed.

“No, I will not back off. You non-white specimens have befouled our celebration! Git ’em, boys!” he cried.

Just as the Ashcroft Youth came rushing at me, I heard a tiny voice coming from the rafters. I looked up and saw my companion clutching a pawful of shiriken, the star-shaped metal martial arts weapons. “Now listen here you ******* ************* ******* cracker-*** racist *************, back off, and I mean now, or I’ll make you all dance a fox trot in double-time!”

Ikey squeaked. As the Ashcroft Youth eyeballed Ikey, I leapt up, grabbed a joist with my fore-claws, raised my tail and began spraying the young fascists with a fine mist. As they cowered, Ikey started tossing the small metal stars at their ankles. It was like a Russian folk dance festival! Blinded by my spray while trying to dodge the shiriken, they crashed into each other and fell into a big pile.

Ikey and I jumped down, calmly walked over to the buffet table, got napkins and wiped our paws. We then left the barn.

As we walked along the starlit country road, I said to my friend, “I’m proud of you, young Ikey. You have surpassed my expectations.”

"Thank you, Rocky," Ikey said. "That means a lot coming from a legendary, world-famous, heroic cat like you!"