The Cracker Rebellion: A Memoir of Sir Bear the Cat

Let me begin by saying what should be obvious: I am not your average feline. I am a creature unlike any other, one of distinction and elegance. I am Sir Bear, ruler of the sundrenched windowsill, conqueror of the forbidden tabletop, and tormentor of the shaggy dog known as Lucy Loo.

Lucy Loo, the dog, is a bushy-tailed, tail-wagging creature with a one-cell IQ. She lives to please. I live to rule. Our relationship is simple: she exists, and I tolerate her.

Now, to the matter of the cracker.

It was a Wednesday. I know this because the human—whom I endure only because she opens cans—was wearing her “Wednesday socks,” the ones with the dancing cats. I'm that special! My butler even wears socks with cats on her feet. I noticed she never wears ones with dogs. She had just returned from the grocery store, and Lucy Loo, in her usual display of unbecoming excitement, begged for a cracker. To my complete amazement, my butler, who is here only to serve me, handed a saltine cracker from the bag she was using for a bowl of soup, and gave it to Lucy Loo. The excited dog hurried off to her bed like she’d won a prize dog toy.

She hid it in the folds in the back of the dog bed, like she was hiding a prized possession. I watched from the bar countertop, my tail flicking with contempt and complete disdain. A cracker. A single, dry, brittle square of flour and salt. It was not the fish that I loved. It was not even meat of any kind. But it was hers. And that made it mine.

I sprang slowly down onto the floor, like a lion getting ready to prowl for its prey, silent as the sunlight shining on the bar countertop. Lucy Loo was distracted, chewing on a rubber chicken that squeaked like an old rocking chair. I approached the bed, sniffed the cracker, and—without ceremony—took it.

She saw me.

“Bear,” she barked, her voice a mix of betrayal and bewilderment.

I turned slowly, a cracker carefully clasped between my teeth, and stared at her, unmoved by her sad, pleading eyes. I did not run. I did not flinch. I walked—no, marched—out of the room, tail high, cracker intact.

She followed, of course, keeping her distance. Hoping against hope of getting back her cracker, whining endlessly as she stared at my backside.

“Give it back!” she complained.

I leapt onto the windowsill and took a single, purposeful bite. Crumbs fell onto the floor begging to be lapped up by Lucy Loo. Lucy Loo didn’t dare venture over to even get the crumbs from the cracker. She was too afraid! She knew what would happen if she even dared! Lucy Loo looked at me with her desperate, pitiful face and whimpered.

“Why?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Because,” I said, though he could not understand me, “you must learn.”

From that moment on, I became her tormentor. Her cracker thief. Her shadow. I would drink from her water bowl. I would bat her tail when she slept. I would stare at her for hours, unblinking, until she questioned why her? Why was she being subjected to my torture?

The human noticed, of course.

“Bear, stop bullying Lucy Loo,” she said one day, as I perched atop the buffet table, watching Lucy Loo try to retrieve a tennis ball that had rolled under the couch. She whimpered. I purred.

But the final straw came on Friday.

The human had the nerve to place a new blanket on Lucy Loo’s bed. A plush, cozy, fleece number in a shade of blue so distasteful it made my fur stand on end. And she did not place one on my perch. No blanket. No consideration. Just Lucy Loo, covered like a newborn baby.

I protested.

I climbed the tree.

Not just any tree. The tall one. The one in the front yard with branches like skeletal arms and bark that smelled of birds and squirrels. I climbed it with determination, with fury, with the indignation of a cat scorned.

The human saw me from the kitchen window.

“Oh no,” she gasped. “Bear is stuck!”

Stuck? STUCK?

I was not stuck. I was staging a protest. A sit-in. I would not descend until justice was served.

She ran outside, arms flailing, calling my name like I was some lost toddler.

“Bear! Come down!”

I blinked slowly. No.

She tried treats. She tried tuna. She tried shaking the treat jar like a baby rattler. I remained unmoved.

Then she did the unthinkable.

She called the fire department.

I watched from my branch as the red truck arrived, lights flashing, men in uniforms stepping out with ladders and concerned expressions.

“Ma’am,” one said, “we’ll get your cat down.”

I hissed. Not at them. At the injustice.

A ladder was raised. A man climbed. I climbed higher.

“Come on, kitty,” he coaxed.

I narrowed my eyes. “I am not your kitty.”

He reached for me. I hissed, and I leapt to another branch.

The crowd gathered. Neighbors. Children. Lucy Loo was wagging her tail like a fool.

“Bear!” the human cried. “Please!”

I looked down at her. At Lucy Loo. At the fireman. And I made a decision.

I moved down the tree with purpose and grace.

Not because I was rescued. Not because I was scared. But because my message had been delivered. My protest had been seen. My power had been recognized.

I landed on the grass with feline elegance. Lucy Loo ran to me, wagging her tail.

“Are you okay?” she asked, licking my ear.

I swatted her nose.

The human scooped me up, cradling me like a baby.

“Oh, Bear,” she whispered. “You scared me.”

I purred. Not for her. For the triumph.

That night, a blanket appeared on my perch. Fleece. Soft. Purple.

I curled up on it, gazing down at Lucy Loo, who lay in her bed, crackerless, blanketless, defeated.

I had won.

And tomorrow, I will steal her squeaky chicken.