If They’re Gonna Tax My Cat, She’d Better Get a Vote

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I. The Ordinance Awakens

It all started with a schnauzer named Justice.

Mayor Teeter had brought her dog to the church softball game. It was meant to be a low-key event—a fundraiser for pothole repair and to finally replace the stained-glass window that Evelyn Kratzner’s great-uncle cracked with a rogue pumpkin back in 1984.

But Justice mistook the third baseman for a suspicious bush, launched herself into the outfield, and barked so ferociously that half the choir scattered.

“That dog needs a license or a job,” muttered Councilwoman Beatrice Holloway, dusting grass off her pants. “Or both.”

Mayor Teeter, never one to let Beatrice have the last word, retorted, “I think she should have a badge, personally. She’s more observant than your husband.”

The next morning, Ordinance 17.6B was pulled from the town archives, photocopied onto yellow paper, and taped with theatrical flair onto the doors of Town Hall:

“ALL DOMESTIC AND SEMI-DOMESTIC ANIMALS MUST BE LICENSED WITHIN TOWN LIMITS. NO EXCEPTIONS. YES, EVEN THAT CAT THAT THROWS SHADE AT PASTOR PEELER.”

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II. Town Hall, Panic, and Paperwork

Town Clerk Marlene knew it was going to be a long week when the line started forming at 6:45 a.m.

Boot Barnes was first, holding his cat Zamboni in one arm and a travel mug full of sweet tea in the other. Zamboni wore a child’s sheriff badge and a pair of sunglasses.

“She’s licensed for attitude,” he said, placing her on the counter.

Marlene blinked. “Sir, this form requires the animal’s full name, working status, and preferred pronouns.”

“Zamboni Barnes, Assistant Porch Supervisor, she/her.”

Behind him, Mabel Dean Ashcroft clutched a plastic crate with a raccoon inside. It was wrapped in a baby blanket and snacking on a Pop-Tart.

“Darlin’’ here takes my mail in every morning. More dependable than my nephew.”

Marlene stared.

“You want to license a raccoon?”

“She does chores. She lives here. She even gets along with the Ring camera.”

By noon, Marlene had a growing stack of applications filled out in crayon, glitter pen, and what appeared to be turkey grease. One dog had the occupation listed as “emotional support biter.” Another pet, a ferret, had a TikTok account listed under alias.

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III. Boot’s Licensing Station

Two days in, Boot set up a fold-out table outside the Farmer’s Market with a sign:

“EXPRESS ANIMAL PASSPORTS: $2 or Two Deviled Eggs”

He offered laminated cards, complete with photos, paw prints, and holographic stickers that read “Citizen-ish.”

Sheriff Peeler approached with suspicion.

“You authorized to issue those, Boot?”

Authorized by common sense and supply chain efficiency,” Boot replied, pointing at the growing line of grateful townsfolk.

Sheriff Peeler paused, pulled a crumpled form from his back pocket, and muttered, “Can you do cats?”

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IV. Clovis Strikes Back

Not to be outdone, Clovis Strickland declared himself Sequatchie Crossing’s first unofficial Animal Compliance Officer.

Outfitted in a trench coat (despite the heat), aviator glasses, and a makeshift badge made from a frozen pizza box, he roamed the neighborhoods with a barcode scanner borrowed from the Piggly Wiggly.

“Have you microchipped your hamster yet?” he asked one unsuspecting teen.

He began cataloging pets with suspicious names: “Spyder,” “Widget,” and a hairless cat named “Anomaly.”

Clovis insisted two crows in town were relaying messages across species lines. He filmed them for hours while narrating in a fake British accent: “Observe the feathered provocateurs…”

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V. The Ring Camera Sting

Trouble escalated when Ring camera footage leaked on NextFork.

First, it showed someone shoving a pug under a neighbor’s porch.

Then a video surfaced of a woman flinging chickens over a fence like beanbags.

“That’s not my pug,” one user commented. “That pug’s not even from this ZIP code.”

City Council responded swiftly: pets must now prove residency with either:

1. A paw print on a water bill, or
2. Appearing in at least three consecutive Ring camera sightings.

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VI. The Goat Protest at City Hall

Old Man Ritchie had had enough.

He marched his three goats down Main Street and staged an occupation on City Hall’s front lawn.

The goats wore signs:

• “WE PAY IN POOP”
• “BAA MEANS NO”
• “GOAT RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS”

Channel 14 News arrived, only for a goat to eat the microphone cover during the broadcast. The footage went viral.

Mayor Teeter, attempting diplomacy, offered free commemorative leashes. No one accepted them. One goat pooped on the box.

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VII. The Llama, the Church, and the Straw That Broke the Ordinance

Reverend Gentry’s therapy llama, Brother Steve, was denied a license due to “unclear ecclesiastical status.

“He’s been to more potlucks than the mayor,” Gentry hissed.

During the church picnic, Brother Steve staged a one-llama blockade across the parking lot with a protest sign:

“TAXATION WITHOUT GRAZITATION”

Children climbed on him like a playground structure while Evelyn tried to read him Psalm 23.

Public opinion turned swiftly.

A town chant was born: “LET BROTHER STEVE PREACH!”

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VIII. Resolution (Kind Of)

Faced with mounting chaos, the council caved.

Pets were now eligible for Provisional Residency if:

1. They had resided in town for at least 30 days,
2. Had not bitten anyone recently,
3. Were not named “Darlin'” and living in Mabel Dean’s raccoon motel.

The application was reduced to three pages. Stickers were optional but encouraged.

Zamboni was granted “Full Porch Citizenship.” Clovis gave an unrequested acceptance speech.

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IX. Post-Credit Scene

Later that night, Mayor Teeter’s schnauzer Justice wandered out to Town Hall, sniffed the ordinance sign…

…and peed on it.

Clovis, standing nearby with binoculars, saluted solemnly.

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📜 Disclaimer

The events, characters, and ordinances in this story are entirely fictional — though uncomfortably plausible if you’ve ever lived in a town with one four-way stop, two church directories, and a neighbor who tries to license their raccoon. No actual goats protested during the writing of this article, but we admit the possibility they would if given the chance.

The town of Sequatchie Crossing exists solely in the minds of those willing to believe in the power of porch politics, potluck diplomacy, and a solid community uprising led by a llama named Brother Steve.

Any resemblance to real policies, people, or pets is coincidental, satirical, or a result of your Ring camera picking up things better left unexamined.

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At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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