That was my cue.
“Do what you can?” I said, slipping between the cats I had overheard and padding my way to the walk overlooking the canal. I ignored the yowls of surprise as I passed. “Does that include discontinuing your own practice of hunting when you’re off at your summer house near Central Park?”
Whittington wasn’t going to stop hunting the birds; it was a truth I knew from three years serving together on council. Maybe I could make this about him and not have to choose sides at all.
“If you got in, you’d drag your paws all winter long waffling over the issue, maybe set up a commission to study the matter further, and then be right back hunting in summer,” I accused.
“I keep my word,” my competition said, tilting his head so he could meet the eyes of some of the voters. His long black coat sparkled with an elegance I didn’t have.
“So why are we even here? If you’d kept your promises, the birds wouldn’t have any issues, would they?”
It was as if we were back in the council chambers, with the canal serving the purpose of the Speaker.
“Well, Churchill, all you do is run for office by complaining about my policies. The voters don’t even know what you stand for.”
Anger burned in my stomach as every voter’s eyes focused on me. I could feel the accusations there. They were agreeing with Whittington.
Have I been too quiet? Too complacent?
By hiding my lack of pedigree, have I hidden all my dreams also?
The uncertainty made me pause, whiskers trying to feel out the position of those watching and coming up short. If I wasn’t honest, I still had hope. I could force the argument back toward Whittington. I’d lose a few votes, but I’d still be in the game.
If I told the truth, I could be slaughtered.
The moment stretched as I peered at Diefenbaker, visible beyond Whittington’s small frame. What would he want me to do? His stance gave away nothing, no hint of worry.
He trusts me.
Maybe he was the only one who did. No one else gave off that innate feeling of trust. If anything, most of the voters appeared resigned, as if they were waiting for me to dodge the argument.
I had a passion to make a difference in the world-and the voters didn’t expect me to do a darned thing.
It shattered my calm.
“I can promise I’ve never been on a bird hunt.” As I spoke the words, the mice skittering around in my stomach finally calmed.
I jumped on to the iron walkway crossing the canal, finally feeling free to speak my mind.
“I can promise that when I’m elected, I’ll ban such hunts.” It was a promise no pedigreed cat would make. “If we work together, we can see change happen. Work with our neighbors instead of against them. There’s enough food and shelter for all, if we’d just join together to find it. We can make this world a better place-one where strays have a place to call home, pigeons can be safe in the park, and the dogs battle boredom by pulling on tuggers and chasing balls. A world where fresh blood isn’t chased down and ripped apart.”
At that, Jennings let out a bark of laughter.
“You think I’m joking?” I asked.
“If you’re voted in, you’ll be lucky to change the color of your collar,” Whittington said, leaping on to the walkway, so he didn’t have to look up at me. He stuck his wet nose in my face. “What have you said the last month that has meant anything? You think making meaningless promises now will make a difference? No one knows what you really want.”
“I thought people knew,” I whispered, more to myself than to anyone.
Whittington wasn’t a bad politician. The election would be easier for me to win if he was. But he was of the old school and wasn’t about to change his beliefs. Other cats seemed to instinctively know that about him and thought I was the same. I had to prove I was different.
“Spokespigeon, can you come down here?” I called, finding the distinctive bird in the flock.
After a moment, the bird descended, finding a spot on the rail just out of both Whittington’s paw reach and my own.
“I don’t go to the hunting parties,” I claimed. “I never have, and I never will.” The words were an admission, though the bird wouldn’t know why.
Jennings came up the steps of the canal without any of a cat’s grace and with all the confidence of a dog chasing after a bone. He let out a bark as he made the walkway and joined the mix.
“Never? Why is that?” he demanded.
I knew the dog could smell the truth, and I gave it to him, knowing there was no hope of keeping my secret now. It was as though someone had let me out of a bag. I was free.
I met Whittington’s level green eyes for a moment, then turned to Jennings. “I’d never condone such a thing.”
The beagle let out a soulful sigh, full of dawning understanding. I thought I knew what he was going to say next. For a long moment I waited, my heart going to stone.
This is it. The end of my career.
But for once, the dog was silent.
Whittington wasn’t. “You’re nothing but a mutt, aren’t you-
Whisker McTailzo?” he spat, using one of the worst forms of address another cat could offer: my human name.
There was more than one hiss in response from the bystanders. Even the newshounds and the birds looked shocked.
“At least I’m an honest one.” I arched my back, letting my tail fur spike. If I was going to be buried, at least I was the one causing the avalanche. I relaxed my posture and looked up at the protestors’ leader. “Do you have a name, spokespigeon?”
“Bergh,” the bird chirped.
“Well, Bergh, if you leave now, even if I’m not elected Mayor, I’ll fight for your rights. I guarantee I’ll be a constant claw in Whittington’s side.”
There were gasps as I admitted I might not win. Everyone knew it wasn’t good practice.
The bird squawked. “For that deal, we will leave in peace.”
Their trust was something, at least.
“No!” Whittington leaped forward, taking Bergh down to the ground with a crisp swipe of a paw.
I lunged, striking Whittington’s paw away with one of my own, forcing him to release the protester.
“You think you can ban sport?” Whittington yelled as all the birds took to the air, wings snapping in the breeze. “Might as well try to ban eating mice, or are you against that as well? How about all those mice caught and killed to give you votes? Do you agree with that practice?”
I refused his lure. “Change starts one cat at a time,” I said. “All I can promise is that I’ll work for it, no matter what happens in this election.”
“Which must continue,” McClung broke in, taking control. She turned to the cats in line. “If you don’t have ballots, please remove yourselves from the premises.”
“I’ll see you in the council chambers… Councillor,” Whittington said, not even offering a paw. His eyes were cold.
I turned away. Toward the city. Toward the reality that I’d likely ceded the day to Whittington.
The realization didn’t hurt as much as I had expected it to.
As I made my way back toward City Hall, Diefenbaker took up a position at my side. Jennings followed at our heels. At the end of the first block, I realized other cats were following us.
Seeing me embarrassed wasn’t enough. They want to see me defeated.
I looked to Jennings, wondering what he would say tomorrow if others killed me tonight. I’d played them false, after all. They had thought I was pedigreed, that I had breeding. What was I really?
A mutt, just as Whittington said.
“Sir? Look at them…” Diefenbaker hissed in my ear.
Without thinking, I did. He was my campaign manager, after all.
I looked, and froze.
While most of the cats following us were grave, a few were smiling. Some even nodded when they saw they had my attention. Not one looked ready to strike.
“What?” The word was less than a stumbling purr in my throat.
“Being part beagle myself,” Jennings offered, “I could’ve told you. Sometimes honesty is enough.”