Cheeky

By Regina WB

Mr. Fat-Cheeks stood outside, busy in the early morning cold. His round eyes darted to-and-fro, and his speckled hair shone sleekly in the morning sun, which tried in vain to cut through the gray. The garden was covered in frost, and mist was caught in the pines. I hated the cold, but liked Mr. Fat-Cheeks. How could he bare to be out in that dampness?

We poured ourselves some coffee and watched his next move. ‘He’s out there every morning, up early and playing with his nuts in Ray and Suzy’s yard,’ said Mike, sipping black coffee. I nodded and poured the cream.

Ray and Suzy, the Millers, were the neighbors. They didn’t like Fat-Cheeks. In fact, they didn’t like anyone. They rarely came out and didn’t have children; which meant they were freaks. On a block where every house had at least one crusty kid, Ray and Suzy were the bizarre exception. In those days, we were loud and barefoot, riding bikes and wearing cut-off jean shorts. It was a kids' neighborhood; messy and littered with bits of broken toys.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller held our youth against us. They would not return lost baseballs or toy planes which accidentally made their way over the fence which divided our houses. Sometimes they would yell at us to ‘Keep it down!’ Suzy taught piano. She needed it to be quiet.  We suspected them of calling the police when we had a high school house party. ‘Those bastards! It’s gotta be them! The McDougal’s would never do a thing so low,’ dad hissed as he picked up Jeremy up from the police station. Basically, we despised them because they disliked us and their disapproval of Fat-Cheeks was all the more reason to hate them.

Mr. Wiggens was another who loathed Mr. Fat-Cheeks. He stared, and plotted, and longed to see Fat-Cheeks meet his fate. He paced the yard and gazed at the pines. Alas, he was too short to duel with Fat-Cheeks, who was high and agile, and moved with cunning swiftness. Mr. Wiggens was a warrior canine. He would howl in pain, his longing to make mincemeat of Fat-Cheeks so strong a desire, such a primal burning within his soul that he could not rest while Fat-Cheeks lived. Long after Wiggens was dead, Fat-Cheeks frolicked above his grave, jumping from branch to branch among the needles, filberts and apples. Mike and I were Cheeks’ only friends, and we liked spying him from our kitchen window. When you live in the country, squirrels and gossip are the best sort of entertainment.