The deputies stood in the yard looking like two men who’d accidentally wandered into a wildlife documentary narrated by someone who hated them.

The Podunk Cat Battalion had already taken formation:

The Babies crouched like tiny, unlicensed ninjas

The Pretty Ones glaring like they were judging a talent show

Mohawk pacing with purpose

And The General, perched on his cinderblock throne, one eye glowing with ancient disappointment

Stone puffed up his chest like a bullfrog trying to impress a lawnmower.

“Ma’am, if you don’t leave, we’re gonna have to arrest you.”

Spine didn’t blink.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t even adjust her sunglasses.

“Arrest me then.”

The yard went so quiet you could hear Lula’s blood pressure rising through the blinds.

Blake looked at Stone.

Stone looked at Blake.

Both looked like they wanted to call their mothers.

And that’s when Mohawk made his entrance.

He strutted out from under the porch like a tiny, spiky‑headed attorney with new evidence.

In his mouth:

Half a lizard.

Still warm.

Still twitching.

Still deeply upsetting.

He marched right up to Stone’s boot, dropped the half‑eaten lizard squarely on the toe, and sat down proudly like he’d just submitted paperwork to the clerk of court.

Stone jumped back so hard his badge almost fell off.

“WHAT— what does THAT mean?!”

Spine’s son didn’t even look up from where he was sitting on the porch rail, arms crossed, calm as a man watching a rerun he’d already memorized.

“Means you ruined his appetite.”

The parolees lost their minds.

One fell out of his chair.

The other slapped his knee so hard the empty beer cans rattled like wind chimes at a trailer park wedding.

Lula shrieked through the blinds like she’d just seen the rapture and wasn’t on the list.

Stone tried to recover his dignity, which was now lying somewhere near the lizard tail.

“Well— well— we’re STILL gonna arrest her!”

Spine stepped forward.

“Do it.”

Stone froze.

Blake froze.

The cats leaned in like they were watching a soap opera filmed on a cracked Android with a $7 budget.

Stone stammered:

“We… we can’t do it right now.”

Spine raised one eyebrow — the kind of eyebrow that has ended arguments, marriages, and at least one church potluck.

“Why not.”

Blake panicked.

“Because… uh… we gotta… check somethin’.”

Stone nodded too fast.

“Yeah. Procedures. Paperwork. Protocols.”

Spine’s son, still not looking up:

“Y’all ain’t got none of those.”

And then —

The General rose.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like a man who’d lived nine lives and regretted eight of them.

He walked right up to Stone’s boot, stared at the lizard, then at Stone, then at the sky like he was consulting the ancestors.

Finally, he delivered the verdict:

“F’er.”

Stone backed up.

Blake backed up faster.

The rooster nodded like, “He speaks truth.”

Stone swallowed hard.

“We’ll be back.

On Saturday.”

Spine shrugged.

“Good. I’ll be here.”