Lilian Braun - The private life of the cat who... - tales of Koko and Yum Yum from the journal of James Mackintosh Qwilleran

Now, after a bath and a trip to the vet and a proper diet, he’s a handsome black-and-white longhair. But here’s the amazing thing! Before every meal he still paws the air three times!

about princess

From Purple Point comes an anonymous note:

Princess is pure white with four black feet and two black ears that she wears like a crown. I brought her with me when I visited my daughter. The guest bed was queen-size and had some designer bed sheets (Dior, as I recall). A most unusual design! Broad stripes in bold colors ran diagonally across the bed! At home Princess has her own royal suite, but when we travel, she sleeps with me. Imagine my surprise when she arranged herself on one of the stripes—and slept diagonally for our entire stay! . . . My daughter said I should write to you about this.

about gin gin

While visiting a friend in Paris, I met her cat, Gin Gin, a charming Siamese who presented me with a green feather when we were introduced. It was an obvious compliment, because the feather was his favorite possession. We shared it during my stay. He was always busy with it, carrying it around, putting it in some special place, guarding it, letting me have it for a brief while—a most engaging ritual! But after I returned home, my friend wrote to say that Gin Gin had lost his feather! He was distraught! The apartment had been turned upside down in search of the feather. No luck! Friends brought other feathers in other colors. Gin Gin wanted his own green feather! How to explain this? What to do?

My advice: Consult a psycatatrist. I presumed there would be one in Paris.

I wrote in the “Qwill Pen” column: “Yum Yum has a new and amusing prank. She pulls the bookmark out of the book I’m reading, causing me to lose my place. Very funny! Someday she’ll learn how to put it back in the wrong place, and that’ll be a real boffo!”

The questions about cats’ humor brought such a flood of replies from readers that it was necessary to add to the staff in the mail department. Slitting envelopes, reading the contents, returning the letter in the envelope (a chore in itself), and routing it to me was a time-consuming process until the management decreed that all communications to the “Qwill Pen” must be condensed to fit on a government postal card. As a result, the sale of postal cards became so overwhelming in Moose County post offices that an investigation was thought necessary at one point; it was feared that the cards were being used for some illegal purpose. At the newspaper a part-time assistant is still required to scan and classify the messages. My query about the feline sense of humor brought more responses than any other topic, leading to the conclusion that the sense of humor belongs less to the cat and more to the cat lover. Some examples:

“My cat likes to steal the top of my pen and bury it in his commode. (A scatological joke.) By the time I dredge it out of the kitty gravel, the bottom of the pen has disappeared.”

“When I put my hand in my pocket, I never know what I’ll find: a grape? . . . a dollar bill that doesn’t belong to me? . . . a fur ball? . . . or worse?”

“What is so funny about dragging a toothbrush into the living room when you have company that you’re trying to impress?”

“Untying shoelaces has become the national feline pastime. This may explain the trend to loafers.”

“The members of our family have lost a total of eleven lipsticks—never found! We think our Tom Tom is operating a black market in cosmetics. Now eye shadow has turned up missing.”

“The vibration from heavy truck traffic, the nearby airport, and abandoned mine shafts used to tilt the pictures on the wall—or so we thought, until we caught our roguish tabby in the act.”

“Don’t let your cats out,” the neighbors warned. “There’s a cat killer stalking the neighborhood. Raccoon, fox, wild dog—we don’t know what it is.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “My cats don’t even go on the screened porch unless I’m in the cabin. If I have to go into town, I lock them up indoors.”

It was our first summer in the seventy-five-year-old log cabin. The nearest neighbors were half a mile down the beach. My two city-bred cats were in heaven—watching the wildlife. From the kitchen porch they could see birds, chipmunks, rabbits, and even garden snakes.

The screened porch on the lakeside was screened on three sides, from floor to ceiling, with a panoramic view of seagulls, grasshoppers, sandpipers—and more chipmunks. Those little striped beasties with twitching noses and flirty tails came right up to the screen to tease Yum Yum.

One afternoon—I’ll never forget that day if I live to be a hundred!—I was typing at the dining table. Koko was on the kitchen porch, scolding the wildlife; and Yum Yum was being unusually quiet on the lakeside porch.

Suddenly there was a wrenching, tearing sound! I rushed out in time to see Yum Yum chasing a chipmunk! A corner of the old screening had torn away! And Yum Yum was chasing a chipmunk down the side of the dune, where they both disappeared in the tall beach grass.

I called her name loudly and thrashed through the tall grasses in vain. There was a flash of movement headed east, and I followed on the sandy shore—calling her and watching for movement in the weeds. Occasionally there would be a glimpse of light-and-dark fur, just ahead. At first I was angry! Where did she think she was going? Why didn’t she answer my stern calls? Then anger gave way to panic as I thought of the “cat killer”! The heat of anger was replaced by cold sweat. She was so young, so small! She would be helpless! Would she know enough to climb a tree?

I was thrashing around in the beach grass like a madman. I was calling her till I was hoarse.

Then my heart sank as I saw a large brown animal running our way.

I was ready to battle him bare-handed. He stopped near a fallen tree, its rotted trunk broken in pieces. He sniffed it. I yelled at him—some kind of thundering curse—and reached for a branch of the fallen tree. He whimpered and lowered his head as he turned and headed back down the beach.

Only then did I hear a small cry: “Now-w-w!” It was coming from inside the rotting log. Down on my hands and knees I could see her squirming to get out of the hollow log.

All I could say was, “Yum Yum . . . Yum Yum” as I stuffed her inside my shirt and jogged home.

The old screens were immediately replaced on both porches and eventually I learned the big brown dog who led me to shivering Yum Yum was a harmless collie belonging to one of the cottagers. I apologized to the collie. His name was Robbie.

I was a precocious fourth-grader when I discovered that rhymed words can be funny, and I started writing slightly naughty couplets about our teachers. Example:

Old Miss Perkins, flat as a pie.

ever had a boyfriend, and we know why.