THE TRIUMPH OF THE MICE
                                                                                                                                                                copyright © 1999 by Robert L. Blau
    “Rats!” said the mouse.
    “Prime Minister Nibbles?” squeaked the Home Minster of Fromagia.
    “Those pompous, self-righteous, overgrown rodents refuse - refuse - to sell us their feline technology,” groused Nibbles. “They want to keep all the power over on the other side of the pond. Imagine! How are we supposed to protect ourselves from the vile Rodentian insectivores on our very borders!”
    “Um, Sir, they are still mice.”
    “So much the worse,” interjected Foreign Minister Peeps. “Can’t eat cheese like proper mice! And trying to steal our dung heap, too. Well, they won’t get away with it! But how are we going to get hold of that technology if the Rats won’t cooperate?”
    At that moment, excited squeaking filled the air, drowning out the ministers’ words.
    “Prime Minister! Prime Minister!”
    It was Chief Scientist Squeaky.
    “Wonderful news!” he shouted, running around in circles and finally hiding under a chair. “We have developed our own cat! Fromagia has its own feline technology! With no help from the Rats or anyone. We mice have built a cat! All by ourselves! Isn’t that fantastic?”
    The Prime Minister clapped his forepaws gleefully and turned to his secretary. “Get me President Whiskers of Rodentia,” he chortled.
    “Actually,” said the secretary, “he’s already on the line. He wants to talk to you.”

    “Guess what, Whiskers?” said Prime Minister Nibbles, unable to contain himself. “We have developed our own cat! With native Fromagian technology! What do you think of that, Bug Eater?”
    “Big deal, Cheese Chomper” retorted President Whiskers, unimpressed. “We just tested our own cat. The children danced in the streets to celebrate our power and brilliance.”
    “Well, how big is your cat? I bet ours is bigger!”
    “Hah! What if it is? We have more cats!”
    “Of course, we are a peace-loving nation. We might agree not to make a first feline strike, if you promise first.”
    “You first, Limberger Boy. And only if you promise to keep your paws off our dung heap!”
    “In your dreams, Chitin Chomper! That’s our dung heap! We marked it way before you.”
    “Mr. Prime Minister!” Foreign Minister Peeps was waving his paws urgently.
    “Um, I’ll deal with you later, Bug Breath!” shouted the Prime Minister, slamming down the phone. Then, to his Foreign Minister, “What is it, Peeps?”
    “Sir, an urgent telegram from the Rats:

                    Major Feline Accident STOP
                    May not be able to contain STOP

What do you make of it?”
    Before Nibbles could reply, a messenger scampered in, quivering with fright.
    “Well?” probed the Prime Minister. “Out with it!”
    “Several large cats are creating havoc on the western border. We think they came from Ratland. Or what’s left of it. A few refugees have reached our borders. The reports are grim.”
    “Are the laboratories safe?” asked the Prime Minister.
    “As a mouse in a hole,” confirmed the Chief Scientist. “Buried well beyond cat’s reach.”
    “Don’t you think we ought to re-evaluate our feline technology based on these, uh, recent events?” ventured the Home Minister.
    “And let the Insect Lovers get ahead of us? Never! The Rats’ blunder is a foreign policy bonanza for us. Victory is ours! Now, the whole world must acknowledge our superior intelligence!”