Have you ever seen a human wig? Terrifying things. Bodiless beings of hair and net that seem to levitate on the head of the humans who wear them. My pet’s father wore one, and he would leave it on the counter in the human litter box overnight to stoke my nightmares. Imagine a long-haired blond wig stepping out of the shadows of the forest. But this wig has pink eyes. And his equally hairy friends are carrying what look like the lids of cat food tins, decorated with symbols I don’t recognize.
He casts his weird pink eyes over us, from the dirtiest corgi you’ve ever seen to a small hissing rabbit pointing a still-hot stick at them with visceral malice to me, the most obvious threat of the bunch.
“I am Rumiñawi,” the long-haired wig says, his accent exaggerated, like a really bad impression of a Latin accent that you only ever hear on late-night TV. “You have trespassed into our territory and must leave.”
“Your territory?” Spike hisses at the mammal.
The talking wig ignores her, his eyes locked on mine, which I assume is in deference to my intimidating presence. “You will escort your pack out of the area immediately and not return.”
“Hey, look, we didn’t mean to … trespass on anything, Ruminini … Ruminwawi … Mr. Guinea Pig,” Diana says, ever the peacekeeper. “We’re just trying to get home.”
Again, the wig/guinea pig ignores her words, waiting for me to answer. I run my eyes over the throng of armed guinea pigs, the way their paws hold their tin shields. This is a trained squadron of zombie fighters. How cool is that? Maybe they’re looking for another warrior.
“We’re not going anywhere. We need to find our …” I hesitate here, because exactly what is Wheels now? He’s not the entirely useless weasel I assumed him to be. He got us here on the backs of ravens, no less. He helped dig me out of a hole. The warrior part of me takes up the biggest sword available to battle back from these admissions in my head, pointing out that I could have accomplished both those heroic acts on my own. But if they were indeed heroic acts, then wasn’t the weasel at least a little heroic?
“Our friend,” Diana inserts helpfully. “He’s a weasel. Maybe you’ve seen him? He’s lanky, with a light brown coat, and he rubs his nose a lot when he’s thinking.”
“The weasel is our prisoner,” Rumiñawi says. “You will go, and be thankful we saved you from his deceptive claws.”
Instead of being pleased that these guinea pigs know about the evil nature of weasels, I feel a spark of worry about Wheels rise in my chest like a flaming arrow shot into the sky. Am I starting to care what happens to the weasel that made me leave my home? What is wrong with me?
“I’m not leaving without Wheels …” Spike starts to say, shoving her way in front of me.
She’s interrupted by a wolf howl that freezes all conversation.
“They’re coming back this way,” Diana announces, sniffing the air, her ears flattening against her head. “More of them. Lots more.”
Rumiñawi signals with a flick of his mane, and half his troop scampers left into the shadowy forest.
Spike is undecided on who to face first, the remaining guinea pigs or the imminently arriving wolves. She faces the forest, then whips around to face Rumiñawi and then back again, her cotton tail quivering in anticipation of a battle. I feel my own blood rising. I’m not abandoning Spike to this fight, and right or wrong, she’s not leaving without the weasel. Warriors don’t run from combat, and in this moment, I am blessed with the potential of two glorious battles. Besides, this particular weasel may have earned enough of my respect that I won’t leave him behind. He hasn’t changed my mind about weasels as a species, but he may have been improved by his time with Spike, becoming a less cowardly version of the animal he was. That transformation should be rewarded. I will deliver him to The Menagerie and let them continue his education.
“Fight us and the wolves,” I say to Rumiñawi, “or we fight the wolves with you. Either way, we’re not leaving without the weasel.”
Rumiñawi flicks his other cowlick, prompting the rest of his troop to turn in formation. “Your loyalty is misplaced. The weasel will have a chance to defend himself for his trespass, but we have not the time to discuss it here. Come with us.”
I deflate a little. I was looking forward to testing my mettle against these furry rodents.
Diana releases her breath, happy to pick the unknown safety of guinea pigs over the known danger of a wolf pack we’ve already ticked off. She follows them into the darkness, as does Spike. I knew Spike would follow, if only to gain entrance to their territory and survey for signs of the weasel. I scowl into the forest, daring a lone wolf to dart out and try to stop us from this escape, but there’s not a canine muzzle to be seen. I take my time stamping out the last of the smoldering zombie bodies and then follow Diana and Spike.
The guinea pigs lead the way into a dense, thorny bush, and Diana stops. “Um … I don’t think I’ll fit through there …” she says, pointing her black nose at the space between thorns that a guinea pig just disappeared through.
Rumi turns his pink eyes toward the sky, and I follow his gaze to the ropes wrapped around a branch. Like magic, a three-foot piece of the thorny bush suddenly lifts off the forest floor. Diana looks to me, and I nod, so she scoots down and underneath the raised thorn gate, her white underside sliding against the forest floor. I follow her to the next gate, which goes through the same process, the gate behind us lowering as this one is raised. Then we’re in the belly of the beast, a large, open space with thorny bush above and all around us. I stare up at the night sky through the canopy of thorns and wonder if this is a human-built contraption. Was the center cleared out for some purpose evident only to humans? Trip would know. As a city raccoon, born and bred, his relationship with humans and all their engineering feats is a source of unrelenting fascination for the members of The Menagerie. He loves tunnels and trains and bridges and fidget spinners. Even more than that, he loves to tell stories about them. I smile that I will have a story to tell him when we get back home and then remember that it’s not my home anymore. Diana will have to tell him this story instead of me.
Tiny fires are lit around the edges of this camp, with small groups of guinea pigs gathered around them, eating or sleeping. The number of colors the guinea pigs exhibit reminds me of my pet store origins. Guinea pigs were very popular with humans, as I recall, in cages next to mine. I never understood their appeal, but who knew they could fight? Maybe the long-haired ones are the warriors and the short-haired ones are the gatherers.
“You admire them,” Diana whispers from beside me.
I nod without even thinking about it. This is a brilliantly designed fortress. “I wonder how many zombies they have killed,” I say aloud. I wonder to myself if it’s as many as I have. Doubt it.
Diana looks sad at my approval of this stronghold, but the truth is, our camp with the humans has too many amenities. It was built for comfort as much as it was built for defense. The point of a home base is to have a safe space to regroup and then return to the fight. It is not for comfort and family. That was the problem with our house in our neighborhood. The doors barely withstood the zombies when they attacked. Which is how my pets fell. Which is how my dogs fell. Which is why I burned the entire neighborhood to ash. Maybe if our camp were less comfortable, random mammals wouldn’t show up looking for a spot in The Menagerie. These guinea pigs seem to understand that.
A dark hole in the middle of the cleared space draws my attention, but before I can investigate, we hear the arrival of the wolves around us.
The canines know exactly where we are, and we can hear their low growls from all around. They’re close enough that I can smell the singed fur. I grin a wicked grin. Yes, they brought the rest of their pack, but the ones we defeated will smell like nasty burned fur for weeks. I hope the guinea pigs notice. Warriors relish recognition from like-minded heroes.
Diana sticks herself to my side like a magnet on a fridge, her ears flicking left and right.
“Are we sure they can’t get in?” she whispers out of the side of her mouth.
I glare at the yellow wolf eye I can see through the many layers of thorn bush, wishing they would try. “This isn’t the first time these guinea pigs have gone to war.”
Maybe I will wait till these animals fall asleep and then take on the wolves myself. That would impress these rodents!
“It is not,” Rumi agrees from one of the fires, where he has spread out a small feast. I try not to stare at the celery stick he’s chewing, but I haven’t seen or tasted a celery stick in a very long time. I wonder where he got it from. It’s not a vegetable our humans seem committed to growing or providing to the mammals of our compound. I must be doing a bad job of disguising my envy, because he picks up another bright green celery stick from behind him and extends it my way. It’s gone in seconds. Delicious. This camp is looking more and more appealing. Rumi smiles and waves a carrot at Spike, who is walking the perimeter glaring at the wolves she can hear but not fight. “Worry not, rabbit. They cannot get in. Many have tried. None have succeeded.”
Diana sits down near the fire close to me, accepting the food being offered to her by other guinea pigs of the troop. I know she prefers fish or meat when she can get it, but she takes a hesitant bite of a mushroom. She can’t seem to relax with the growling sounds, and I assume that she actually understands some of what the wolves are hissing at us, and it can’t be good. I’m guessing it involves comparisons between us and litter paper.
I take Rumi at his word that we are safe within these thorns. I’m on my third celery stick before Spike finally sits down and glares at me for my mealtime betrayal. I swallow down my food before nudging the carrot in her direction. I know she’s worried about the weasel, but as always, I’m thinking about the next fight, and that requires fuel. I try to communicate this through my whiskers, but either I fail or Spike doesn’t care for my rationalizations.
“You will stay here tonight,” Rumi says, wiping his paws on his wig of hair, twirling a strand into a pompadour. “You will be safe.”
Spike looks like she wants to throw the carrot at the walking blond wig like a dart, but Diana speaks before she can do it. “Thank you, Mr. Guinea Pig. We appreciate the safety of your camp. And the food.”
“What about Wheels?” Spike demands.
“I told you, the weasel will have a chance to defend himself,” Rumi repeats, his long fur rippling. “I’ll speak no more on the matter.”
If Spike’s ears got any more stiff, she would be able to row a boat with them. Through a tsunami.
“Tomorrow,” he says, pausing to look each of us in the eyes one after the other, “you leave. Before the sun rises. You will be on your way and never return.”
Spike just clenches her jaw, which makes her two front teeth jut out even further. Diana and I nod sagely because there really is no choice with wolves growling all around us and a legion of armed guinea pigs with us, surrounded by a thorny bush that is as much a prison as it is a castle. Spike and I could maybe squeeze our way through the thorns to take on the wolves, but not Diana. And what about Wheels? No, the fight outside the thorned bush can wait while we locate the weasel. It’s all about priorities. Rumi flicks his hair again, and all the guinea pigs walk to another fire pit, leaving this one to us.
“We need to find Wheels now,” Spike whispers, gripping the carrot so tightly it snaps in her paws.
Diana sniffs the air. “He’s here for sure, but … he’s not alone.”
“What do you mean?” I whisper, chewing on a kernel of corn and trying to look like a good guest and, potentially, a good ally. “Another weasel?”
Diana shakes her head immediately. “Not another weasel.”
“Eat,” I suggest, pushing both broken pieces of carrot at the rabbit. “Keep your strength up. Once camp has settled for the night, we free the weasel.”
“You promise?” Spike asks, the anger in her eyes receding slightly, her ears relaxing out of their rigid stance. I realize that she really thought she was alone in this rescue. I can’t blame her. I haven’t kept my dislike of weasels to myself.
“Promise,” I say, realizing that sometimes, you really do need to say things out loud. And I mean it. Even if I decide to stay with these warrior guinea pigs for a few battles, it’s not a home, and it’s no place for a non-combatant like the weasel. He would need to leave, ideally on his own paws.
Despite her worries, Spike gobbles down enough food for a bear and then, leaning against Diana, who has splooted right in front of the food, falls asleep almost mid-chew.
I wait, not really sleeping, but not moving either, my paws pulled underneath me, right up next to Diana’s left ear. The guinea pigs are basically dormant, in piles around their extinguished fire pits. The chittering finally transitions to snoring, and I can’t hear the wolves anymore either. I look up through the thorns, catching sight of blurs of flying creatures, wondering if Pal would be able to see us in here. Probably not. I stare skywards anyway.