Chester the cat (formal title: His Majesty Chester Imperious Lionheart III) was a master of passive-aggressive mischief. He was sleek, black, and had eyes that held the universe’s most condescending glare.

Buster the dog (formal title: Buster) was a golden retriever, a goofy, optimistic fluffball who believed the world was a giant tennis ball just waiting to be slobbered on.

Cat and dog were locked in a cold war of pranks.

The current skirmish began when Buster received a brand-new, squeaky rubber chicken. Chester, who hated squeaky things, found Buster’s joy insufferable.

One afternoon, while Buster was blissfully dreaming of chasing squirrels, Chester meticulously relocated the chicken. It was not hidden in a cupboard or under a couch. That would be too obvious. Chester, with the supernatural grace of a ninja, perched the chicken atop the stationary ceiling fan blade.

When Buster awoke, the search began. He sniffed every corner, pawed at every cushion, and whined with a sorrow that could curdle milk. The rubber chicken was his everything. He stood in the middle of the living room, a picture of doggy despair, until he happened to glance up. There was his chicken, atop the immobile fan.

The next morning, Buster’s revenge was swift and damp. Chester’s favourite spot was a patch of sunlight on the hardwood floor. Buster drank an entire bowl of water, waited a few minutes, and then lay down in Chester’s sun spot, pretending to sleep.

As the sunbeam hit, Chester sauntered in. He sniffed the air, then froze. He extended a paw. The paw came back wet.

Chester glared at the dog, his eyes narrowed into slits of pure fury. His revered sun spot was ruined. The cat’s outraged mrowl echoed through the house, a sound of betrayal so profound it probably registered on some feline Richter scale.

Joyce, their human, oblivious to the war waged under her roof, assumed the animals were just “being weird.”

One evening, she left a newly-baked lasagna on the kitchen counter to cool. This was a neutral zone. However, a truce was the last thing on Chester and Buster’s minds. The dog, loyal sentinel of all things edible, sat guard. The cat, master tactician, observed from a high perch, plotting.

Chester crept down and flicked a mouse toy with his paw, launching it at the dog’s stacked, but rickety, chew toy collection. The toys crashed down. Buster, easily distracted, instinctively lunged at the sound, forgetting his duty to the lasagna.

Chester sprang to the countertop, swiped a large piece of lasagna, and retreated to his perch, an orange-tinted grin spreading across his face. Buster, looking back, saw the empty space on the pan and the cat happily licking his paws. The dog let out a soul-crushing howl, a cry of both regret and promise of future revenge.

The next day, both cat and Joyce lay in the living room, napping (Chester on the floor, Joyce on the couch). Buster crept in, a large balloon held loosely in his mouth. He stood over the sleeping cat, lowered the balloon, and squeezed his jaw.

The balloon exploded with a loud BANG. Chester jumped straight up with a terrified yowl. Joyce did likewise.

The cat came down (on all fours of course), then flew across the hardwood, shot up a tall bookcase, and launched itself at the ceiling fan. Fan, chicken and cat crashed to the floor. Still yowling, Chester fled the room, leaving behind one of his nine lives.

Buster regarded the stunned, shaking human, surveyed his handiwork, and chuffed with great satisfaction as he retrieved his beloved rubber chicken.

© Peterborough Examiner