Crowning Fables 4: A collection of one short stories

Whiskers and the Open Road

In the little town of Maple Hollow, where narrow roads twisted between green hills and old oak trees shaded nearly every front porch, there lived a cat who was convinced he had been born for something greater than chasing mice.

His name was Whiskers.

Whiskers was a small orange-and-white tabby with four white paws, a cream-colored belly, and a splash of orange across his nose that made him look as though he had accidentally stuck his face into a jar of marmalade. He had large green eyes, a crooked white whisker on the left side of his face, and a tail that curled upward whenever he was especially pleased with himself.

And Whiskers was pleased with himself quite often.

Most of the cats in Maple Hollow preferred ordinary cat things.

Mrs. Green's gray cat, Marmalade, slept in flowerpots.

The butcher's enormous black cat, Chester, spent his afternoons sitting behind the shop hoping scraps of ham would mysteriously fall from the counter.

Two Siamese cats belonging to the mayor liked watching pigeons from the second-story windows of Town Hall.

Whiskers, however, was interested in only one thing.

Cars.

He loved everything about them.

He loved the rumble of engines.

He loved the shine of polished chrome.

He loved tires humming against pavement.

He loved the smell of warm motor oil drifting through an open garage.

He loved headlights, dashboards, leather seats, steering wheels, radios, windshield wipers, and the satisfying *clunk* of a car door closing.

But most of all, Whiskers loved one particular car.

A dark blue 1967 Ford Mustang belonging to his owner, Mr. Henry Thompson.

The Mustang was Mr. Thompson's pride and joy.

It had white racing stripes across the hood, chrome bumpers polished so brightly that Whiskers could occasionally see his own reflection in them, and an engine whose deep growl could be heard halfway down Willow Street.

Mr. Thompson had owned the car since he was nineteen years old.

He had driven it to his first job.

He had driven it on his first date with the woman who eventually became his wife.

He had driven it across three states on his honeymoon.

And after years of raising children, working long hours, repairing broken fences, attending school plays, paying bills, and watching the world change around him, the Mustang remained in his garage.

Now Mr. Thompson was sixty-eight.

His hair had turned mostly silver, though he still claimed there was "plenty of brown left if you looked from the correct angle."

His wife had passed away several years earlier, his children had grown and moved to other cities, and his once-busy house had become quiet.

Too quiet, perhaps.

That was why Whiskers had entered his life.

Mr. Thompson had found him one rainy autumn evening underneath the Mustang.

The kitten had been soaked from nose to tail.

When Mr. Thompson reached beneath the car, Whiskers had hissed fiercely, swatted his hand, and then immediately crawled into his coat when thunder shook the garage doors.