Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

CHAPTER 2

When the compact four-door pulled away from the apple barn, both cats were in their carrier on the backseat, reclining on a cushion befitting their royal status, and Qwil-leran was at the wheel contemplating a new adventure that might change his life. He planned to keep a diary during the journey, using the small recorder that was always in his pocket. It would capture his thoughts and impressions while driving, along with yowling remarks from the backseat, and he could add commentary when they stopped at motels. The following account was recorded on tape:

TUESDAY . : . Left Pickax at ten-thirty, a half hour later than planned. The car was packed, and I was ready to take off, when the Siamese vanished. Nothing is more exasperating than delay caused by a last-minute cat hunt. First I found Koko on a bookshelf, doing his ostrich act behind the biographies, with six inches of tail protruding from the hiding place. With him it was a game, and the tail was intended to be a clue, but Yum Yum was in deadly earnest. She was huddled on a beam under the roof, accessible only by a forty-foot ladder. Curses! Rather than call the volunteer fire department, I opened a can of cocktail shrimp with an ostentatious rattling of utensils and remarks such as "This is delicious! Would you like a treat, Koko?" In our household the T-word is taboo unless a treat is actually forthcoming, so it always works. After a minute or two a series of soft thumps told me the princess was on her way down from her ivory tower.

Having enjoyed their impromptu feast they hopped into their carrier, ready to hit the road. Did I say impromptu? I daresay the entire episode was plotted by those two incorrigible connivers!

To avoid tiring my passengers, who are confined to 360 square inches of cushioned luxury, I plan to limit each day's driving. At rest stops I release them from the carrier, giving them freedom to hop about the car interior, have a drink of water, and use their commode, which is placed on the floor of the backseat. At least, that's the general idea; they usually ignore their commode until we arrive at a motel. Tonight we'll stop at the Country Life Inn, which not only welcomes pets but supplies a friendly cat to any guest who wants feline company overnight. Extra charge for this, of course.

TUESDAY EVENING . . . Here we are in room 17 of the Country Life Inn. I paid for a room with two beds, and the cats immediately went to sleep on the one I intended for myself. Meanwhile, I went out and had a decent steak at a so-called family restaurant where the waitresses wear granny dresses. More families are dining out these days. I was surrounded by broods of four or six children who screamed, spilled drinks, raced up and down the aisles, threw food, and otherwise made themselves at home. A spoonful of mashed potato and gravy narrowly missed my left ear, and I determined then and there to boycott wholesome family restaurants and patronize murky dives where the waitresses wear mini-skirts and fishnet tights, where sleazy characters hang around the bar, and where all the potatoes are french fried.

WEDNESDAY ... I gassed up and pulled away from the inn after a breakfast of buckwheat pancakes, eggs, and country sausages. (We have better sausages in Moose County.) Last night after I turned out the lights, the cats started roaming. I could hear their claws scurrying around the bathtub, and I assumed they were wrestling and having a good time. Later I discovered there was more to that caper than met the ear . . . Anyway, I fell asleep and didn't hear another sound until the car doors started slamming at 7 A.M., at which time I opened one eye and looked over at the other bed. It was empty. Both cats and one dead mouse were in bed with me! Tonight we're going to have separate rooms.

We are now approaching urban areas and driving on freeways, and the furry folks in the backseat seem to be lulled by the steady rate of speed and drone of traffic. Or they may be drugged by the diesel fumes and broken-down oil burners on the highway.

For lunch I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and parked at the rear near the dumpsters, thinking the garbage aromas would entertain the Siamese during my absence. After releasing them from the carrier, I took care to leave the windows ajar for ventilation and lock all four doors before going in for a quick burger and fries. When I left the restaurant fifteen minutes later I could hear a horn blowing—the continuous, annoying wail of an automobile horn that's stuck—a short in the wiring or whatever. Imagine my embarrassment when I realized it was my own car! That roguish Koko was behind the wheel, standing on his hind legs, with his paws planted firmly on the horn button. As soon as he saw me, the rascal jumped into the backseat. I said, "That's a clever trick, young man, but we could all be arrested for disturbing the peace."

It was only when I fastened my seat belt and turned the ignition key that I noticed an unauthorized object on the floor. It was below the window on the passenger side. Until I reached for it I couldn't identify the thing. It was a piece of bent wire from a coat hanger. Car thieves—or worse, cat thieves—had tried to break in! I apologized to Koko . . . Was it a coincidence? Or is he now functioning as a burglar alarm? I can never be sure about that cat!

WEDNESDAY EVENING ... We checked into our motel at four-thirty. This time I paid for two rooms, both singles. The three of us are spending the evening together in room 37, the cats huddled on the bed watching TV without the audio, while I start a Thomas Mann novel I haven't read since college. At bedtime I'll turn out the lights and slip into room 38.

THURSDAY . . . Now we've left the freeways behind. The scenery is more picturesque, but the forested hills are spoiled by billboards advertising discount stores and warehouse outlets. I went into one such store in a town called Pauper's Cove and bought a pair of slippers, having left mine in Pickax. They had two thousand pairs but only one in size twelve. The slippers weren't the color I wanted, but they were a rare bargain. Then I stopped for lunch at a local eatery and had some very good vegetable soup and cornbread. While I was eating, a guy rushed in and shouted something, and the entire place emptied— customers, cashier, cook, everyone! I followed, thinking it was an earthquake or a forest fire. But no! They were all standing around my car, peering in at the Siamese, who were leaping gracefully about the interior and striking magnificent poses. Whenever they know they have an audience, those two are shameless exhibitionists.

Before starting to drive again, I went into another discount store, just to browse. They had a good price on driving gloves, so I picked up a pair to use in Moose County next winter—that is, if I'm still in Moose County next winter. Time will tell. I may be in Alaska. Or the Canary Islands.

THURSDAY EVENING . . . Tonight I paid for two rooms at the Mountain Charm Motel, which would be improved by better plumbing and mattresses and fewer ruffles and knickknacks. When I put on my new slippers, I found out that the one I had tried on in the store was size twelve, all right, but the other was size eleven. That led me to inspect the driving gloves. They were both for the right hand! There's one thing I like about Moose County: Everyone's honest . . . Tomorrow we arrive in Potatoland.

FRIDAY . . . Last leg of our journey. Koko and Yum Yum have just had their first experience with a tunnel through a mountain. They raised holy hell until we emerged into the sunlight . . . They're getting excited. They know we're almost there.