Why did it have to be stairs?
President Gerald Ford Turns into a Cat
Admiral Biscuit
“What do you think, Mr. President?” the archeologist gushed. “Impressive, isn't it?”
“Fine work you're doing,” President Gerald Ford replied, exchanging a glance with his two Secret Service agents, and then his lovely wife, Betty Ford.
Even Vice President Nelson Rockefeller was there, but everyone pretended not to notice.
“That's not the best part,” the archaeologist said, gesturing to a long descending flight of stairs. “At the bottom, we've made a discovery which will be the archaeological breakthrough of the century. It's—well, words don't do it justice.”
Ford hesitated at the top—he didn't like stairs—but this expedition had been funded by the University of Michigan, and it would be great to stick it in Ohio State's eye.
He took three cautious steps down the long stone stairwell before his foot slipped, and he made the rest of the descent on his keister.
It was less humiliating than falling down the steps of Air Force One, but lasted a lot longer, and the last step was a doozy.
This stairwell did not end in a landing, airport tarmac, or . . . well, anything. Just an open well.
Ford almost made it to the opposite side of the chasm, and he almost caught the ledge, but did neither and proceeded to plummet down the bottomless pit.
His two Secret Service Agents, Smith and Jones, made it to the bottom just in time to catch the tail end of his fading scream. Betty Ford followed at a more sedate pace, while Rockefeller huffed along behind.
“Should we go after him?” Agent Smith asked.
“Would you go down there?” Agent Jones replied.
As one, the two agents turned to face Betty Ford. “Congratulations, Mrs. President. We are deeply sorry for your loss.”
“W-what about me?” Rockefeller sputtered.
“Sorry, Nelson, you're just not cut out for the presidency.”
Daring Do paced around the ruined temple restlessly. It was her first solo expedition, and she wanted to make sure everything went right. So far it had—in fact, had gone too right. No booby traps, no powerful beasts, no mysterious runes, no scorpions, snakes, spiders, alligators, or even piranhas. It wasn't even creepy inside.
It was a textbook ancient ruin, the kind that just sat there mouldering.
The only oddity was the small pyramid in the center, which had at its apex a large, open, probably bottomless crater. Around it, as if they'd been spit out, were various small archeological tools, a wire-bound notebook filled with writing in a language she didn't recognize, and twelve dented cans of Spam. Based on the picture on the can, it was some kind of horrible pudding. Curious, she opened one, and took a look at the slimy contents. It smelled worse than an outhouse in Tartarus.
She wasn't particularly surprised when a distant yowl came from the well, and she spread her legs and flared her wings, prepared for whatever might be vomited forth. A demon, perhaps—that would test her mettle. Equestria was poked full of holes that led to strange, shadowy dimensions filled with monsters.
Or, it could even be something as mundane as a Quarray Eel. Those she knew how to fight; she was a master of Wing Chen.
Instead what burst forth was a boring, everyday, long-haired, white cat, who seemed as surprised by the turn of events as she was.
After two more days, the only other discoveries Daring Do had made were that the cat would eat Spam, it was rather clumsy for a cat, and she still hated cats.
Giving up on the temple as a total loss, Daring gathered her supplies, the few weird tools, the notebook, the Spam, and the cat, and flew to Ponyville, which was the nearest town with rail service to Canterlot.
She left the cat and the Spam with a friendly pegasus, and took the rest with her.
One train ride and six mimosas later, she'd completely forgotten about her failed expedition and where she lived.
As an Eagle Scout, Gerald Ford had quickly gone through the six stages of grief. He’d moved to acceptance by his fourth hour in this new world. Incidentally, that was the same amount of time it took him to cope with suddenly becoming President—the worst prank Dick Nixon had ever played on him.
He was amazed to discover that the pony who had taken him under her wing—quite literally—spoke a language he could understand. Less fortunate was that he was a cat, and therefore couldn't answer.
Also, she hadn't said anything useful, just muttered to herself about Dr. Caballeron, Ahuizotl, and Tatzlwurms. The Ahuizotl part sounded familiar; the rest was gibberish to him.
He was disappointed when she dropped him off with a different pegasus, but she was kind enough to leave the rest of the Spam. He loved Spam; when he’d served on the Monterey in World War II, it had been the only palatable food aboard ship.
His new caretaker took him to live in her cottage, which was filled with friendly animals and a demon rabbit*. Ford wondered if he'd somehow found himself in the pony version of Bambi.
He would have been happy staying with the demure pegasus forever, but one day a slim alabaster unicorn came by.
She was beautiful, but snooty. Ford knew the type from a hundred White House dinners.
“Good afternoon, Fluttershy,” she began.
“Oh, hello Rarity.” Fluttershy brushed her mane out of her eyes and gave a gentle smile to the unicorn.
Rarity—sounds like a stripper name.
“Um, today's Sun's Day, isn't it? So our spa date's tomorrow . . . or did I lose track of time?”
“No, darling, today is Sun's Day. I finally got moved into the boutique, and I was thinking how lonely it was. I thought I could concentrate without Magnum yelling at the newspaper, and Sweetie breaking everything she gets her hooves on, but. . . .”
“But?”
“I just need a companion. One who's quiet and neat.”
“Oh.” Fluttershy brightened. “I have lots of cute animals just looking for a home. Um, I've got a poor lonely screaming frog. He would hardly require any care at all—just lots of nice juicy bugs to eat.”
“That sounds lovely,” Rarity lied, “but not to my tastes. I would prefer a furred pet.”
Fluttershy nodded. “I have a song about finding the perfect pet. Would you like me to sing it?”
Ex-President Ford nodded eagerly. He loved Fluttershy's singing voice.
“I would, but I do believe I have found the perfect pet. That cat—she's gorgeous. Think how lovely she'd look with a bow in her hair!”
“Um, it's a boy cat.”
Rarity shrugged. “He'll look handsome with a bow in his hair. I shall call him Opalescence.”
*who, after acquiring a taste for American presidents, went on to attack Jimmy Carter.
Author's Note
A One-Shot-Ober Fic.
This is story #38. Gerald Ford was the 38th President of the United States. Coincidence? I think not.
