Blanche’s beloved cat, Chester, was in the upper branches of the old oak, mewing. This had never happened before. Chester was a house cat—he’d stay inside and happily jump about. He was well-behaved. But today Chester slipped outside, panicked, and found himself trapped in the tree. He was scared and confused.
Blanche couldn’t climb the tree the way she did back in her younger years. She called 911 for help.
Blanche had expected Phil the fireman to come by with a ladder. But instead they sent a SWAT team.
“He’s right there, on that branch, just to the left,” Blanche helpfully told the SWAT team leader. “Can you reach him?”
“You bet your sweet ass I can reach him,” said the leader, pulling out a very large gun. “Freeze!” he yelled.
“Would it help if I brought out a saucer of milk?” Blanche offered.
Tony, the SWAT leader, shoved her aside. The team, weapons drawn, surrounded the tree.
Chester mewed frantically and waved his paws.
The SWAT team pulled back.
“Did you see that?” said one gunman.
“Damn right!” said another.
“He’s acting erratically and defying our orders,” added Tony. “Let’s do this!”
The four gunman blasted at the tree and Chester’s bloody carcass plummeted to the ground. The guns must have been pretty powerful because, shortly after, the tree itself toppled and fell.
The SWAT team cheered and laughed and munched donuts and drank coffee.
“Well done, men!” said Tony, slapping his pals on the back.
Blanche, who, for posterity, had been recording the rescue of her cat on her smart phone, screamed. “What have you done?! My cat! My tree!”
“We feared for our lives,” said one SWAT team member, blandly like he was in grade school learning to read.
Subsequent investigation revealed that the suspect, a black cat named Chester, did indeed have razor sharp claws.
Some claimed that Chester’s claws were retracted but they were drowned out by angry patriots chanting “SWAT lives matter.” The officers were cleared of any wrongdoing.