Strange Tails

The room at the far end of the east wing bore the framing and wall anchors of the cages it once contained, and the flat surfaces of those cages were knocked through to create long rudimentary bunks, barrack-style, one above the other. Cotton sheets provided a semblance of comfort, and Potbelly nuzzled one—the feeling was soft and inviting, not quite up to the mattress department in Macy’s but a definite step-up from the riverbank. She was happy they declined the offer of separate rooms. Safety in numbers.

“You want the top bunk, Potbelly?” Squirrel nodded at its five-foot gap to the floor.

“Very funny.”

Gavin, who had briefly disappeared from the room while they settled in, returned. “This plastic specimen bag is for you,” he said. He dropped it to the floor. “For when the time comes.”

“Oh, more than time will be coming,” said Squirrel, turning to Potbelly. “Shame we don’t have those curried eggs. Remember the ones we tried at the Giant Eagle?”

“Alcohol has helped me forget.”

“Oh right. Potbelly’s Alcohol Farm. Four legs good, legless better.”

“We do not permit drinking at the Silence,” instructed Gavin.

“I’m kidding. She gets sick as a dog.”

Potbelly frowned at him. “About that second room.”

“Sorry old girl. Let’s settle in for a chat. Maybe I’ll tell you a ghost story. You might shit yourself.”

“Into the specimen bag please,” said Gavin, concerned his message had not been taken seriously.

“Yes, yes, into the bag. Thank you Dr. Poo. I’ll have her hovering over it, waiting for two shits that pass in the night.”

Gavin scowled. On realizing even his gravest expressions were being ignored by the two inmates he decided upon a parting glower, and then left.

“Wow, that guy is a hoot,” said Squirrel.

“He’s just doing his job.”

“His job? So what would that be then? What is this place, really? It’s like Frankenstein’s Glee Club. Why would all these creatures want to stay here? And why did we never hear about it until now?”

“All I know is what’s inside me is something someone was willing to die for. It’s my duty to pass it on, and then … well, pass it on. What they do with it is up to them. Coralane will tell us.”

“You have a crush on that feathered Franco, don’t you? She’s a piñata full of hot air.”

“Gavin says she’s brilliant. What are you? A walking list of candy ingredients.”

“You know the top three things I hate about your lists?”

“No, but I’m not giving you an excuse to say number two again.”

“Well … I know enough to know enough about this place.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It did in my head. I’m saying I’ve seen enough to know this: we had it plenty good where we were, before we ever arrived at Moonie Base Alpha. Now look what’s happened—you’ve bitten off more than you can poo. Let’s get this thing out of you, and then get us out of here.”

“Well then massage my belly. It may help.”

Squirrel dropped to the lower bunk and walked across Potbelly’s upturned pinkish tummy, using the wrinkles to get a good grip, minding his claws, and ignoring her giggles as he discovered the funny bits he’d rather not know about.

“Oh I’m sorry,” came a voice from the doorway. “Is this a private party?”

“It’s not what you think,” replied Squirrel, jumping off Potbelly, who giggled again. “And you can shut up too.”

“I just wanted to say hello,“ continued the newcomer. “I’m in the room next door.” The newcomer seemed unperturbed by the scene it came across, lifting a clumpy foot in what they could only assume was a wave. It was, unless they were very much mistaken, a tortoise.

“My name is Michel,” said the tortoise.

There was a single beat of silence, and then a snort from Squirrel. Potbelly smiled a newly relaxed smile. Michel waited patiently for the amusement to end. “It was the name on my cage when I was first released,” he said. “I had a companion named Sheldon, so it could have been worse. Michel just seemed to stick. Like a burr, with separation issues.”

“Well,” said Potbelly brightly. “Whatever it is, it’s fine by me. Is your cage next-door the actual one you were released from?”

“No, but I do go back there from time to time. Just to contemplate how life has changed, you understand. It’s on the other side of the facility so I plan ahead. I take snacks.”

“Well, hello to you. It’s nice to get to know one’s neighbor.”

“For now at least,” qualified Squirrel. “We won’t be staying long.”

“Oh that’s a shame. Be nice to have a companion who stuck around for a change.”

“Sorry, pal, we’re made of Teflon.”

“Ignore him, Michel. He prefers a nuclear family. Which we are, I guess, always ready to meltdown.”

“A nuclear family is but a half-life lived,” noted Michel.

Potbelly nodded. “It doesn’t leave mushroom for others.”

“Happen a lot does it?” huffed Squirrel, annoyed by their riffing. “This mysterious disappearance thing? Bodies suddenly evaporating into the night?”

“Squirrel,” admonished Potbelly. “Be civil. She didn’t say it was anything mysterious—“ Potbelly paused her thought, suddenly skewered as it was on Michel’s pointed coughing. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?” she finished.

“Not a she,” replied Michel, somewhat shyly.

“Oh … I see, right, Michel, e-l, not Michelle, e-l-l-e. French. Sorry, my mistake. Anyway,” Potbelly turned back to Squirrel. “I don’t see why you have to be such a downer when he—“

Michel coughed again. “Yes, you are correct,” he said. “But I also wanted to point out that we don’t impose gender assignments in the Silence.”

“Oh. Shall I refer to you as it then?”

Michel thought about this. “A Tortoise called It? No that wouldn’t do.” He rolled his mottled and chubby lower lip to strike a note of erudition. “It’s like this you see: considering the fluid nature of gender identity, the pressure of societal norms, and of course the history of gender oppression, we prefer to avoid cis-designations. And besides, it’s just so hard to tell under all that fur.”

He tried to smile appeasingly while Squirrel squinted at him, hard. “In the spirit of tolerance, though, and you being new and all, yes, last time I looked, and with all other things being equal, I am a he. Though my advice is to ask beforehand.”

“Seems a little personal. We hardly know anyone.”

“Or you can say they.”

“What if there’s only one of them?”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to discriminate against the multi-personalitied, would we?”

“I guess not.”

“But who does that leave that we can discriminate against?” asked Squirrel.

“Well the point is, no one.”

“You’re taking all the fun out of evolution.”

“Maybe some of us are less in need of it than others.”

“Says the dude who’s basically inside out.”

“I’m thick-skinned. It comes in handy.”

“Enough!” declared Potbelly, wondering if this argument was only adding to her constipation. She changed the subject. “So you were saying something about the previous occupant?”

“Yes, their name was Cecil. They left, just as you arrived, unfortunately. Suddenly announced they were off, something very wrong they said, never more changed, or something. Some sort of breakdown, I’d imagine. I’m not too high up the pecking order round here, literally and metaphorically, so I don’t have any more information than that.”

“Was he—sorry—was they on a mission to help the humans?”

“Possibly. It’s why we’re all here, after all.”

“It’s not why I’m here,” huffed Squirrel, again.

“I thought you said you didn’t know why we’re here,” countered Potbelly.

“I meant here as in here.”

“Well how many heres are there?”

“There is only one here here, but there’s a general here that’s everywhere.”

“Hmm. I just think you have a chip on your shoulder about the humans.”

“I do, and a big, salty, vinegary one it is too. I’ve said it before Potbelly, and I’ll say it again: I’m no fan of those lanky weirdos.”

“But,” replied Michel, “ironically, those same humans are why you are able to say anything at all. Everyone says so; at least, I say so. Which maybe proves my point. It’s hard to say. But easier to say because of the humans.”

“From what I’ve heard so far, I agree,” concurred Potbelly. “We think therefore we yammer.”

“Ha! Thinking? It’s overrated,” dismissed Squirrel, refusing to concede. “It doesn’t taste good. I can’t drink it. It doesn’t help me when my ass itches. It’s annoying when you have to listen to other people try it out, and they never seem to get it right. It’s one big waste of my time.”

“Would you prefer if you couldn’t think, Squirrel? I can drop you on your head any time you like, just say the word.”

“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“But if you don’t think, how do you know you are?” continued Michel.

“You are what?”

“That you are”

“Are … not very good at finishing sentences? I know I are because otherwise you’d be talking to yourself.”

“Thinking is how we know we possess a soul.”

“Don’t get me started on that freeloader. If I’m carry anything inside me it better be made of sugar.”

“The soul is what makes you, you.”

“Telling you, don’t need it.”

“You have it whether you like it or not.”

“You mean like tapeworm?”

“You wouldn’t be able to have this debate if you couldn’t think.”

“I wouldn’t be able to have this debate if you’d leave me the hell alone.”

“It allows us to ask the big questions in life. Not only why we’re here, but where are we going … why we are going.”

“Just sounds to me like you need a decent map.”

“Exactly, but a map for philosophy.”

“I’m sure they have one. What state’s Philosophy in?”

“Hopefully a better one than me,” sighed Potbelly, shaking her head. “Can you two quit it? I need to relax and focus on my pooping. Sorry, Michel.”

“No problem. Do what you need to do. We should all be able to forgive, learn from, and accept.”

“Another bloody hippy,” tutted Squirrel.

“Hippies are never bloody. That’s kind of their point.”

“OK, Old Man of the Shell, tell me this—“

“I’m only one hundred and ten.”

“—where are the humans now? What’s your philosophy for why they go to all the trouble of making poor little Potbelly here, a young pup that never did anyone any harm, or you, for that matter, some antiquarian home carrier, only to get themselves wiped off the planet? What was the point of that?”

Michel nodded slowly. “You ask an important question. No one truly knows, of course, but we think they needed us for some special purpose. Cecil thought so. They was a sensitive soul, a mink you know, and with such striking red-and-green eyes, just like Coralane’s. I’d imagine a place like this, with its cages, would not have been especially relaxing for a mink. Anyway, maybe that’s why they ran off. I took their mattress. I think it’s what they would have wanted.”

“And Tina’s leg might be another piece in the puzzle, right?” hazarded Potbelly.

Michel nodded, but wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. “As I say, the humans are why we’re here. Did you know, for instance, that none of us really speak? We only think we do. You’re a dog, Potbelly, so you’re probably thinking you’re communicating by barking, and Squirrel, you’re doing whatever it is that you rodents do—chirrup, I suppose. But we actually understand each other through some computer in our brains. It does the translation for us. Very clever, these humans.”

“I did not know that,” answered Potbelly, impressed.

“That you were barking? I could have told you that months ago.”

“I’m sorry Squirrel, all I heard was some sort of pathetic chirruping. Ignore him, Michel, I sometimes think the only reason he speaks is so he can come up with puns on words like drawers. So, what you’re saying is: you know how we speak, but not necessarily why we speak.”

“That would be a correct conclusion.”

“A simple ‘yes’ would have done,” mumbled Squirrel, testily.

“I’ll bear in mind that you are more comfortable with simple answers.”

Squirrel squinted at him even harder.

“As I say, I have something in my stomach that could reveal an answer too,” added Potbelly, bringing the attention back to herself.

“Reading entrails you mean? Isn’t that a little … primitive?”

“I mean poo. The answer might be in my poop.”

“Ah,” Michel nodded. “Well I see you are very tired and it’s been a long day.”

“She’s serious,” confirmed Squirrel. “Don’t get me wrong, she comes out with nonsense all the time, but this doesn’t happen to be one of them.”

“Intriguing. So that explains your coprological fixation. How may I help?”

“I don’t know. I was given a laxative, at least I assume that’s what it was, but it doesn’t appear to be working.”

“Have you tried a stick?”

“I don’t think playing fetch is going to help.”

“I don’t mean running after one. You may have some kind of blockage. I sometimes need to insert objects … not for any other reason you understand.” Michel spotted Squirrel about to interject. “Not that there would be anything wrong with that, of course, if one did. I don’t mean to impugn those who—“

“Yes, yes, no one’s offended,” said Squirrel, finally squeezing in his interruption. “But a stick? Isn’t that a little … sticky?”

“There are all sorts of devices one might try. Some even vibrate.” Michel coughed. “Or so I have heard.”

“I’ll tell you now that ain’t happening,” declared Potbelly. “I’ll see the whole world burn before any part of it goes up my special place.”

“Of course,” said Michel, in a most understanding tone. “Then might I suggest something else?”

“Sure.”

“Follow me,” he said, embarking slowly upon a three-point turn.

They waited patiently while Michel’s beveled dome edged forwards and back several times. Finally it rocked slowly out the door.

“Need a ride?” called Potbelly.

“Sorry, I know I’m not the quickest, but from what I understand I always arrive at my destination first.”

Squirrel hopped onto Potbelly’s back, let out a tally-ho, and within a few seconds they were trotting past Michel.

“Aha a race,” said Michel. “You will soon become complacent and decide upon a rest. Big mistake.”

“I feel good right now.”

“We’ll see,” he replied, dragging himself on.

After ten minutes of wordless scraping Michel guided his companions into a room marked AV. Several televisions and other mysterious-looking devices hung from the wall in a manner that seemed, once again, specifically designed to cow the newcomers into deference.

“Oh, that’s right, you need to be a hare,” said Michel.

“Do I?”

“Never mind. Can you hop about and press every ‘On’ button you find. We’ll get the right ones eventually.”

Squirrel obliged, orchestrating a symphony of turned-on blue lights, each emitting a low, satisfying hum.

“Would you like some water for your tummy, Miss Potbelly?” asked Michel.

“Why thank you kind sir.”

“Excellent. I haven’t had any in days. I can’t seem to work these silly things.”

Michel gestured to a hose running from a high tap, installed for the benefit of the less athletically gifted, but still requiring no small amount of dexterity to turn a lever attached to the lowest point. Potbelly stared at the problem for a moment, looked around, walked over to a large, heavy book, pushed it from a low shelf, and then nudged it back to the hose. She took a sharp bite into the line until a few drops emerged, and then flipped the book over a few inches back from the breech.

“There you go. You need some water, just nudge the book off a bit.”

“Miss Potbelly, I am in love.”

“Oh really? With whom?”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Don’t start, she’ll only get used to it,” replied Squirrel, returning from his power button tour. “What now?”

Michel finished lapping up the puddle left by Potbelly’s improvisation, and ambled over to a Bunsen burner.

“Fire this up,” he said to Squirrel. “We have left over pizza on the shelf. Few days old but that adds to the umami. I shouldn’t eat any—having trouble fitting into my shell as it is. I’ll handle the remote.”

With a deftness that surprised Squirrel, Michel motioned with his beak through configurations on a dial pad that lay handily on the floor, conjuring menus onto the screens before them, until finally movie credits began to roll. Sinister music caused Potbelly to whimper involuntarily, and then a large red cursive word appeared: “Cujo.”

“Never trust people that operate audio equipment,” whispered Squirrel to Potbelly. “They’re all stereo types.”

“Shh!” she demanded.

Two hours of pizza munching, water slurping, involuntary yelping, anxious yelling, and at one point a communal need to pee later, the movie ended and more credits rolled.

“That. Was. Awesome,” whispered Potbelly, glazed reverence in her eyes.

“Was this really what they thought of us?” asked Squirrel. “The bat. The dog. Did they think we were dangerous?”

“I’ve come to understand that they thought we were many things. Far too complex to summarize, but this is a good start. I also recommend Dallas. I’ve been researching who shot Junior. It could be a clue.”

“That. Was. Awesome,” repeated Potbelly.

“It does seem to have this effect on dogs,” observed Michel. “Strange, really. Now, are you ready for your number twos, Miss Potbelly?”

“I am! It’s coming! It worked!”

“For some reason it always does.”