Daddy Blue Bug wanted to make the finest mulch in all of Storyland Canada. His steel blue jaws could chew any trash into rich, dark mulch. But his mound sat empty. He had no trash to chew, and no place to find it. A mulch-maker with clean teeth is just a hungry bug. He stood beside his small mulch pile and clacked his four pointy teeth. Two on top, two on bottom. They itched to work. "One good scrap," he told his wife. "That's all I need to start." Mommy Blue Bug flicked her blue antenna. Her jaws matched his, sharp and ready. "You've searched three days," she said. "There's nothing left to chew nearby." She nudged the bare mound. "Wishing won't fill this." A voice cut in from the shadow of the hedge. "Then you're asking the wrong bug." A gray cat slid out, scarf loose around her neck, boots quiet on the dirt. She looked them both over, then licked one paw. Daddy Blue Bug knew her by reputation. The alley cat heard everything. She traded whispers about who left what where. Bugs feared her tongue more than her claws. "You want trash," she said. "I know a spot. Fresh scraps, out in the open, nobody guarding it." She flicked her tail. "But secrets aren't free, little chewer." Mommy Blue Bug stepped in front of her husband. "We have nothing to trade." The cat smiled. "You'll have mulch soon. First taste of it comes to me." She waited. "Deal?" Daddy Blue Bug looked at his empty mound. Without a spot, there was no mulch at all. He clacked his teeth once. "Deal." The cat led them across the dirt to a rusted tin can lying on its side. Its lid was already peeled back and bitten into jagged points. Daddy Blue Bug couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into it. "There," she said. "Some other bug started it and quit. Now it's yours." She turned and vanished into the hedge. Daddy Blue Bug climbed the can's dented side. He set his top and bottom teeth against the can and bit down. It gave. He chewed, and the can became soft, dark shreds. He spat them onto the ground. A small heap grew, mulch mixed with black earth, fresh and rich. "It works," Mommy Blue Bug said. She pressed a shred between her jaws. "This is good mulch. Really good." Daddy Blue Bug chewed faster. He noticed other cans in the area. He had his supply, and his teeth had proven they could do the work. Then a shadow fell over the can. A wet snout pushed through the scraps, sniffing. A second cat, plump and pale, had followed the smell of fresh mulch. She pinned one paw over the tin can and looked down at the two small bugs. "This can," she purred, "is mine now."