Лилиан Браун: The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

“Nothing much. What are you doing?”

“Shortening my new dress a couple of inches.”

“Whoo-ee!”

Ignoring the comic wolf whistle, she went on, “It’s much too long, and I thought I’d wear it with some Scottish accessories Sunday afternoon, since the party’s celebrating Dr. Connie’s return from Scotland. Would you consider wearing your Highland attire, Qwill?”

Although he had once rebelled at wearing what he called a “skirt,” he now felt proud in a Mackintosh kilt with a dagger in his knee sock. After all, his mother had been a Mackintosh.

“What was Connie doing in Scotland? Do you know?”

“She earned her degree from the veterinary school in Glasgow twenty years ago, and she goes back to visit friends. Did you know her cat has been boarding with Wetherby?”

“No! How does he get along with Jet Stream?”

“Connie introduced them when Bonnie Lassie was a kitten, and now Jet Stream acts like her big brother. And,” she went on, “Connie brought Joe a lovely Shetland sweater as a thank-you for boarding Bonnie Lassie.

“Do you realize, Qwill, that the Shetland archipelago, where the wool comes from, has a hundred islands!…A hundred islands!” she repeated when he failed to respond.

“It boggles the mind,” he said absently, watching the Siamese trying to get into the Kabibbles canister.

“Well, anyway, I thought you’d like to hear the latest.À bientôt, dear.”

“À bientôt.”

After the Siamese had finished their bedtime repast and their washing up, Qwilleran escorted them up the ramp to their quarters on the top balcony. They looked around as if they had never seen it before, then hopped into their respective baskets and turned around three times before settling down.

Cats. Who can understand them? Qwilleran thought, as he quietly closed their door.

Returning to his desk at ground level, he wrote about it in his private journal. He was a compulsive writer! When not turning out a thousand words for the Qwill Pen column, he was writing a biography or history of interest in Moose County. And he always filled a couple of pages in his private journal. On this occasion, he wrote:

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Koko is a remarkable cat! Is it because his real name is Kao K’o-Kung, so he knows he’s descended from the royal Siamese?

Or is it because—as I insist—he has sixty whiskers?

He knows several seconds in advance when the phone is going to ring—and also whether the caller is a friend or a telemarketer selling life insurance or dog food.

When crazies bombed the city hall window boxes, Koko knew ten minutes in advance that something dire was going to happen. Why didn’t someone read his signals? The police chief was sitting here having a nightcap, and neither of us got the message!

Oh, well! We can’t all be as smart as a psychic Siamese!

TWO

Qwilleran was a well-known figure in downtown Pickax: tall, well built, middle-aged, always wearing an orange baseball cap. He responded to casual greetings with a friendly salute and took time to listen if someone had something to say. There was a brooding look of concern in his eyes that made townsfolk wonder. Some wondered if there had been a great tragedy in his life. His best friends wondered, too, but they had the good taste not to pry. Once he had been seen to help an old lady cross Main Street. When observers commended him for his gallantry, he said, “No big deal! She just wanted to get to the other side.”

At Lois’s Luncheonette, where Qwilleran went for coffee and apple pie and the latest scuttlebutt, customers would say, “How’s Koko, Mr. Q?” Humorous mentions about Koko and Yum Yum in the Qwill Pen were awaited by eager readers.

Moose County was said to have more cats per capita than any other county in the state. In Lockmaster County, horses and dogs were the pets of choice.

In cold weather, when the converted barn was hard to heat, Qwilleran moved his household to Indian Village, an upscale residential complex on the north edge of Pickax. There, four-plex apartments and clusters of condos had features that appealed to career-minded singles and a few couples. There was a clubhouse with a swimming pool, meeting rooms, and a bar. There were walking paths for bird-watching along the banks of a creek. And indoor cats were permitted.

The cluster called the Willows had four rather notable occupants: the manager of the Pirate’s Chest bookstore, a doctor of veterinary medicine, the WPKX meteorologist, and—at certain times of the year—a columnist for theMoose County Something.

Also in residence were six indoor felines: Polly Duncan’s Brutus and Catta; Dr. Connie Cosgrove’s kitten, Bonnie Lassie; Wetherby Goode’s Jet Stream; and Jim Qwilleran’s Siamese, Koko and Yum Yum, well known to newspaper readers.

Wetherby Goode (real name Joe Bunker) had a yen for party-giving and a talent for entertaining at the piano. He played “Flight of the Bumblebee” and “The Golliwog’s Cakewalk” without urging at pizza parties on Sunday afternoons.

Dr. Connie’s return from Scotland was a good excuse for assembling the residents of the Willows.

The guest of honor was wearing a Shetland sweater in a luscious shade of blue. The host was wearing the taupe sweater she had brought him from Scotland, and there were Shetland scarfs for Polly and Qwilleran.

“Connie, may I ask why you chose to get your degree in Scotland?” Qwilleran asked.

She said, “The vet school at University of Glasgow is internationally known—and has been for many years. It’s noted for teaching excellence and research. Early studies of animal diseases later resulted in advances in human medicine.”

Wetherby sat down at the piano and played a medley of songs fromBrigadoon with the flourishes that were his trademark.

Qwilleran recited Robert Burns’s poem “A Man’s a Man for All That.” Toasts were drunk. And then the pizza was delivered.

During the meal there was plenty of talk: mostly about Hixie Rice, who was promotion director for the newspaper and a resident of Indian Village. She was masterminding the new senior center on a pro bono basis…. She had worked so hard on the Fourth of July parade, and then it was rained out by the hurricane…and then vandals had trashed the front of the city hall after she had done wonders in beautifying it. As for romance, she had been unlucky.

Qwilleran, who had known Hixie Down Below and had been instrumental in her coming to Moose County, had little to say.

She was unlucky, that was all. She was talented, spirited, and a tireless worker—but unlucky. There was a Hixie jinx that followed her, and now she was charged with the responsibility for the new senior center.

TheSomething had announced a contest to name it, with an entry blank printed on the front page.

Joe Bunker said, “That was very clever of theSomething. To make three entries, you have to buy three papers.”

Qwilleran said, “You weathermen are too smart, Joe. We thought no one would notice our scheme.”

Polly said, “The official ballot box has been in the bookstore, and it created a lot of traffic. Judd Amhurst kept moving it around so the carpet wouldn’t wear out in one spot. Judd retired early from his job with Moose County Power, and he still had plenty of pep. He’s manager of the Lit Club and he volunteers at the animal shelter, where he washes dogs.”

“What’s next on the program at the Lit Club?” Qwilleran asked.

“There’s a retired professor in Lockmaster who’s an authority on Proust, and he’s coming to lecture…. It would be nice, Qwill,” Polly said, “if you’d put him up at the barn for one overnight.”

Qwilleran said, “I’m sure it would make a good perk in addition to the modest stipend you can afford. Koko has been making aerial attacks. On ailurophobes. I hope this speaker likes cats.”