Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

The next non-winner was Minnie K, bringing a number of regretful wails. Minnie K was a prominent figure in Moose County history, but that was a long, indelicate story; the K stood for Klingenschoen.

Qwilleran shook the box vigorously before drawing the winning ticket. “And she-cat will hereinafter be known as …Katie!”

There was a scream of delight, followed by applause from the others.

“Where is she? Katie, come and take a bow!”

Someone found her, and he held her up for all to see. She was soft and fluffy, quite different from the sleek Siamese he brushed daily. He would be in the doghouse when he returned home; Yum Yum would resent his being chummy with another female.

The audience waited expectantly for the next drawing. To prolong the suspense Qwilleran recited a limerick he had composed for the occasion:

An amorous tomcat named Jet Loved every she-cat he met, But one day he got ill And they gave him a pill, And now he’s suing the vet.

The limerick was received with laughter and screaming - another affront to the staid old building. Qwilleran went on: “Okay, friends, are you ready to name this handsome fellow who is said to be a retired gentleman cat?”

“Yea!”

The first ticket drawn was… Moose. The second was… Dickens. “And the winning name is” - Qwilleran. blinked at the. Ticket - “the winning name is Mackintosh!” It was his own middle name.

A young woman was squealing and jumping up and : down. “That’s my ticket!” she shouted.

“Good choice! What gave you the idea?”

“My family has an apple orchard. I thought we could call him Mac.”

“And so,” Qwilleran concluded, “let us welcome as official library mascots, Mac and Katie, who will do their purr-sonal best to make this a friendly place to browse or borrow books!”

In the days that followed, Moose County had more on its collective mind than Mac and Katie, or the spelling champs, or even the tragedy at Bloody Creek. ; In coffee shops and on street comers they talked about nothing but “the commish.” All who had voted for him, praised his barbecue, winked at his kickbacks, and accepted his small bribes began circulating unsavory stories. They all knew what had really happened in the Campbell scandal. They all knew about Bunny. They said his wife was a saint; she’d stand by him, in spite of everything. They speculated that the house in the Hummocks would be sold, and Mrs. Ramsbottom would go to live in Ittibittiwassee Estates… Even so, some were confident that “the commish” would wiggle” out of the charges.

Qwilleran and his attorney moved fast to arrange for the purchase of the Coggin land by the K Fund, which would put it in conservation for agricultural use: A search for Coggin heirs, as required by law, had so far produced no claimants for the contents of the coffee can.

Then there was an interesting political side effect: the sudden death of the proposed “weed laws” and “road improvements” in West Middle Hummock. Since their promoter was awaiting trial on criminal charges, the legislation was unpopular with both the lawn faction and the naturalists in that picturesque community.

One afternoon Paul Skumble delivered Polly’s portrait to the barn and helped to hang it in the suite on the first balcony.

“I like it,” Qwilleran said as he wrote the check. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, I’m quite proud of it,” the artist admitted. “I think I captured her innate intelligence and compassion.

She was a charming subject - cooperative and never bored or nervous.”

“I wonder what will happen to your portrait of Ramsbottom. The restaurant is closed.”

“I know one thing: it will appreciate in market value because of the notoriety. Meanwhile, it would be an honor to do your portrait without charge.”

“Are you still adamant about not painting cats?”

“I’m afraid so,” Skumble said.

In Polly’s portrait she sat in a highbacked Windsor against a wall of leather-bound books, wearing a blue dress and pearls and holding a copy of Hamlet. When the Rikers saw it, Mildred said, “It’s one of the loveliest contemporary portraits I’ve ever seen. It depicts gentleness and strength.”

“Humor and dignity,” her husband said.

“Let’s have your portrait done, Millie.”

“Not until I lose twenty pounds.”

“Perhaps he could paint you thinner.”

Polly said, “I’m sure I lost a few pounds on canvas.” The three of them had come to the barn directly from their offices for the unveiling and a brief celebratory drink. While the Siamese observed from the top of the fireplace cube, the foursome sat around the lounge area and exchanged news and views.

Arch said to Qwilleran, “Are you going to leave that bike in the living room? It looks a little eccentric, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I consider it a high-tech art object,” Qwilleran said. “The cats will knock it over when they go racing around - the way they scuttled a few other things I could name.”

“They never go near it.”

Then Mildred announced that they were moving into their beach house for the summer, even though it meant a longer commute to the office. “It will be a good summer for UFO sightings,” she said. “They return every seven years.”

Arch and Qwilleran, who scoffed at visitors from outer space, exchanged dour glances, and Arch said, “My sole reason for summering at the beach is to enjoy the revitalizing lake air in the company of my dear but wacky wife.” And he added that the Moose County Something would publish no photographs of mysterious lights in the night sky.

The guests were looking at their wristwatches. It was time to leave - Polly for her bird club and the Rikers for a dinner party. Qwilleran accompanied them to the parking area, where the farewells were prolonged as everyone thought of something else to say: The library was planning a reception to introduce their new mascots, Polly said. Mildred suggested inviting Derek to bring his guitar. Qwilleran ventured that Derek might compose a folk ballad about Mac and Katie.

The two cars finally pulled away, with tooting and waving, and Qwilleran went indoors to feed the cats. They were not waiting at the door. They were not on the fireplace cube. He stood still and did an eye-search of their usual haunts: the top of the refrigerator, the softest furniture, the balcony railings. No cats!

“Treat!” he shouted, and two furry bodies rose from the basketseat of the recumbent bike. “You jokers! You think that’s funny!” he said. “You like to make a fool of anyone with only two legs!”

All three of them had their treat: roast beef from the deli. Some of it was diced and placed on two plates in the feeding station; some of it was sliced and placed on rye bread with tomatoes and horseradish. Then they all went to the gazebo.

Qwilleran stretched out on a lounge chair overlooking the bird garden, and Yum Yum landed weightlessly on his lap. Koko sat at his feet with an alert eye for movement in the bushes and an alert ear for birdsong. Soon he was chattering an obbligato or mewling a melodic phrase of his own.

Amazing! Qwilleran thought. More and more Koko’s behavior convinced him that this was no normal feline. Koko was a natural predator who was never predatory. He had never been interested in catching mice, although Yum Yum had one or two to her credit. He made buddies of crows and sang for the wrens and robins. He was a house cat who knew when the telephone was about to ring and when something bad was happening half a mile away. He put ideas in one’s head when there were problems to solve and secrets to uncover.

Furthermore, Koko had devised uncatly ways of communicating information. Long before “the commish” was implicated in the Coggin case, Koko was bleating like “a dirty old ram,” although Qwilleran had failed to read the message. Long before Phoebe’s murder, he had taken a dislike to the woodpecker with a red topknot. And now that the case was in the hands of the prosecutor, he had suddenly lost interest in red checkers, the bell with a serpent for a handle, the antique compass, and Nathanael and Rebecca.