The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

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.”

The foursome moved to the deck for coffee and Polly’s homemade chocolate brownies. Jet Stream accompanied them on a leash, because of the recent scare about rabid wildlife. There had been a time when cats were free to visit the creek and watch the fish and birds. Now there was evidence of rabid skunks, raccoons, and foxes. What had happened?

Joe explained, “Too many house pets are getting mixed up with rabid wildlife!”

Polly said she had never understood the nature of rabies.

“An infectious disease common to some forms of wildlife,” Dr. Connie said. “It’s transmitted through the saliva when rabid animals get into fights with household pets and bite them. The best safeguard is the leash or the cage. Otherwise they’ll see something move on the bank of the creek and be off for some fun!”

Qwilleran said, “We never had rabid animals in downtown Chicago—only kids with slingshots and careless truck drivers.”

Then Qwilleran broached the subject of Koko’s sixty whiskers, and Dr. Connie said, “I can’t imagine that Koko was enthusiastic about your counting them.”

Qwilleran said, “I gave him a mild sedative that is used in the theater when cats are to be onstage.” He was the first to say he had to go home and feed the cats. The women said the same thing. As a farewell, Joe sat down at the piano and played “Kitten on the Keys” very fast!

Someone said, “We must do this again soon,” and everyone agreed.

Qwilleran escorted Polly to Unit One and went in to say good night to Brutus and Catta, as he always did.

After Joe’s fast pace at the piano and after the nonstop friendly chatter, Qwilleran welcomed a quiet evening with the Siamese. Driving home, Qwilleran remembered growing up in Chicago and hearing his mother play “Kitten on the Keys”—and marveling at how her fingers flew over the keyboard. Now Joe Bunker played it twice as fast! Where did he get his nervous energy? He grew up in the town of Horseradish, inhaling all those powerful fumes. Joe had a cousin with a Ph.D. in corvidology, and she was as wacky as he was.

Entering the barnyard, he saw Koko cavorting in the kitchen window. He knew what that meant.

Two cats—Where’s our dinner? We’re starving!

One cat—There’s a message on the phone.

The call was from Judd Amhurst, one of the three judges assigned to select a new name for the facility.

“Qwill! We’ve got the name! And it’s perfect! It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper, but if you can’t wait, give me a call.”

Judd lived at the Winston Park apartment complex—just across from the bookstore where the judging was scheduled to take place.

Never comfortable with unanswered questions, Qwilleran phoned him immediately. “Judd, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“Well, Maggie, Thornton, and I met in one of the community rooms at the bookstore big table! Bushels of entries! We started reading them aloud. Most were ordinary. Some were silly. A few had possibilities. Then Thornton read one from Bill Turmeric of Sawdust City—”

“I know him!” Qwilleran interrupted. “He writes clever letters to the editor.”

“You’ll like this one! It’s complete with a motto!” Then he read: “Senior Health Club—Good for the Body, Good for the Mind, Good for the Spirit.”

“Sign me up!” Qwilleran said. “Am I old enough?”

“I thought you’d like it, Qwill. We sorted through all of them, but this was the best.”

“What’s the prize?”

“The paper’s giving two hundred dollars, and there are gift certificates from merchants.”

“Well, thanks for tipping me off. I’ll devote Tuesday’s column to the Old Hulk—Its Past and Future.”

Qwilleran started making notes for his Tuesday column:

Feed-and-seed warehouse.

Served farmers for more than a century.

Called the Old Hulk.

Typical warehouse: flat roof, no windows, loading dock.

Interior: nothing but open space with lofts for sacks of feed and seed, connected by ramps. In-town location no longer serviceable to today’s farmers, who prefer more accessible outlets located at handy locations around the county.

Property vacant for several years.

Will need public entrances, windows, five floors connected by stairs and elevators, plumbing, electricity, and a lot of paint and carpet and ideas!

Why not a roof garden?

In his journal he would write:

The Old Hulk was a piece of abandoned property on the north edge of Pickax, recently purchased by the Scottish community and given to the city as a senior center, along with a grant covering complete remodeling, redecorating, and furnishing.

In the nineteenth century, Scottish shipbuilders had come to Moose County to build three-masted schooners using the two-hundred-foot pine trees for masts. When steam replaced sail, they turned to house building and did well, as attested by their mansions in Purple Point and their support of community projects. The senior center was to be their thank-you.

As for the property chosen, it had been a feed-and-seed depot and warehouse where farm wagons came to stock up. New modes of transportation had replaced it with several small depots around the county. The Old Hulk, as it was called, became a hangout for kids, feral cats, and who knows what else. Now, architects and builders were donating their expertise and theSomething was offering the coordinating services of Hixie Rice to the project pro bono.

Later that day, Qwilleran had a phone call from Hixie Rice.

“Guess what? The dog table is back!”

Early in the year an heirloom auction had been staged to raise money for furnishing the new Senior Health Club. Old families donated prized possessions—everything from porcelain teacups to rare items of furniture.

One such was a six-foot library table of ponderous oak construction with bulbous legs at one end; the other end was supported by a life-size carving of a basset hound. It was donated by the office manager of theSomething, inherited from her wealthy father.

Everyone said: “It weighs a ton! Bet she’s glad to get rid of it. Can she take it as a tax deduction? What’s it worth?”

At the auction an unidentified agent made a sealed bid and won the table for…ten thousand dollars! It left town on a truck for parts unknown.

Now the dog table was back!…donated to the Senior Health Club by an unidentified well-wisher.

Qwilleran asked, “How will it be used?”

“In the foyer, which is quite large. It’ll be a focal point, with magazines on top, and a table lamp…. May be we should have a cat lamp! An artist could do a sculpture of a cat sitting on his haunches and holding the socket in his paws! Do you think Koko would pose? Everybody would come to see our dog table and cat lamp!”

“Hang up!” Qwilleran said. “You’re hallucinating!”