The Cat Who Saw Stars

-15-

After the thimbleberry pancakes, Tess took the yellow bus to the unsuspecting town of Brrr to propagandize for the Republic of Crowmania. Qwilleran drove to Mooseville for the dogcart races. Traffic was unusually heavy on the lakeshore road. Even before he reached the city limits he saw cars, vans, and pickups parked in farmyards, as well as on both shoulders of the road. Droves of pedestrians were walking toward downtown, where three blocks were blockaded. Only racing units and the cars of officials were admitted. Qwilleran showed his press card and was told to park in the marina lot. He had never seen so many kids in one place: clamoring for attention; shrieking for joy; crying; jumping up and down; getting lost; tussling. Adults, who were in the minority, had tots in arms, toddlers in strollers, and infants in backpacks. Both hotel lots were cleared for official use: one marked as a racetrack, the other serving as a paddock.

Wayne Stacy spotted Qwilleran and explained the system. Forty youngsters would ride in forty toy wagons hitched to forty family pets. There were boxers, retrievers, hounds, pit bulls, terriers, huskies, German shepherds, and one giant schnauzer, and plenty of mongrels, all classified according to weight. The young drivers had numbers on their backs; the dogs wore boleros in the family’s racing colors. One adult accompanied each racing unit in the paddock; a second adult

member of the family would stand at the finish line.

Over the years the event had become a carnival. Wagons were decorated with paint or crepe paper, and the young drivers were in costume. There were astronauts, ballerinas, red devils, pirates, cowboys and girls, clowns, and black cats mingling with the forty dogs, eighty adults, and numerous harassed officials.

Qwilleran said, “It looks like absolute chaos, but I suppose you’ve done it before.”

“We sure have! For thirty years,” said Stacy.

“Some of the young parents were once racers themselves.”

“Isn’t it somewhat hazardous?”

“We’ve never lost a kid or a dog, knock on wood.”

“Well, I wish you’d explain the procedure.”

“Okay. There are preliminaries, and there are finals. You announce the names and numbers of racers in each heat. Five units come from the paddock and line up. The whistle blows, and they’re off! Moms and dads wait at the finish line, cheering their dog on.”

“How do I know who’s who and what’s what?” Qwilleran shouted above the general noise.

“Cecil Huggins will hand you the information. At the end, you present two trophies - Class A and Class B. There’ll be picture-taking.”

“What are the trophies?”

“Inscribed mugs. Plus, every kid in the race gets an ice-cream cone and a little something to take home. Every dog gets a bone.”

“Do I present the bones?”

The two men had been shouting in each other’s ears, and when Qwilleran went to the mike, even his amplified voice could hardly be heard above the din. It doubled in decibel level when the first whistle blew.

Spectators cheered their favorites and screamed at unexpected happenings. Once, a basset hound left the track in mid-course and trotted to the sidelines for some sociability… Another time, two dogs who were neck-and-neck in the race started to fight and dumped their drivers… And then the giant schnauzer crossed the finish line and kept on going down Main Street, while the driver screamed and parents and officials ran in pursuit.

Through it all, Qwilleran gritted his teeth and did his job.

The grand champion in Class B was a yellowish, brownish mongrel in a denim bolero, with a four-year-old cowgirl at the reins.

“They’ve been training,” Qwilleran said to Cecil.

“All year long! They’re serious about this race.”

In Class A the champion was a black Labrador in a red, white, and blue bolero, with a seven-year-old astronaut for a driver.

Qwilleran said to the astronaut’s father, “Aren’t you with the Scotten Fisheries? I met you when I was doing a story on commercial fisheries. I’m Jim Qwilleran.”

“Right! I’m Phil Scotten. You went out with us, hauling nets. You wrote a good article.”

“Thanks. It was a priceless experience… Nice dog you’ve got.”

“Right! Einstein is a retired G-dog, trained to do drug search. Very intelligent. He’s what they call a passive searcher. When he detects some thin’, he just sits down.”

“Is that so?” Qwilleran patted his moustache as a whimsical idea occurred to him. He considered it further as he walked down to the waterfront parking lot, where racing units were being loaded into pickups.

He approached the Einstein team and said, “I just had a crazy idea. There’s a boat over here that I’m thinking of buying. Would Einstein give it a sniff?”

“Sure. He’d probably enjoy it.” The two men and the dog walked over to the Suncatcher and went aboard. Einstein gave a passing sniff at the stain on the deck and the dark spots on the transom, but it was the cabin that interested him. They took him below. He inspected everything - and sat down.

“I think he’s tired,” said the fisherman. “He’s gettin’ on in years, and he’s had a hard day.”

Driving back to the cabin, Qwilleran pounded his moustache with his fist. Now he had something pertinent to discuss with Brodie: first, the rendezvous of the Suncatcher and Fast Mama; then Owen’s disappearance; then Einstein’s behavior.

As for his houseguest, if she failed to leave on Sunday morning, he was prepared to throw her out, as Wetherby had suggested. Still, he would prefer to use psychology. For example, he could drop some leading remarks into the conversation at dinner.

During the cocktail hour: “I certainly enjoyed our visit, Tess!”

With the soup course (she had promised gazpacho): “I hope you’ve found this trip worthwhile.”

With the steak: “Feel free to phone me

about any future developments in Crowmania, such as a civil war or military coup.”

With the dessert: “They’re expecting violent weather, starting tomorrow noon.”

With the coffee: “How long does it take to drive to Horseradish?”

The excellent dinner was served on the porch, and Qwilleran dropped his hints as planned. Afterward, he said, “I’ll clean up the kitchen, in case there’s something you’d like to do.” (Like packing, he thought.)

“Thanks,” she said. “I’d like to phone my cat-sitter. The last time we talked, Princess was acting strangely.”

“She misses you,” Qwilleran was quick to say. “The females especially are upset by a long absence.”

Since the phone was on the bar, he could hardly avoid hearing her conversation: “Hi, Sandy. It’s me again. How’s Princess?…Is she still coughing? … Give her one of those pills. Mix it with her food, and let’s hope she keeps it down…

Tell Jeoffrey not to stress her… No, I don’t know when I’ll be home. I’m busy making friends for the Republic. But I’ll keep in touch.”

Qwilleran had yet another idea. He said to his guest, “Before you leave, I want to tape your story about Captain Bunker and the pirates. Why don’t we do it right now?” He made it sound urgent.

“I’d love to tell it again!” she said. “But first I want to feed my friends on the beach.” She had been scattering dried com once or twice a day, and the family of seven who had entertained Koko was now an extended family of forty or more.

Then, still immune to Qwilleran’s dropped hints, she said, “Do you realize that Grott’s Grocery carries duck eggs? I couldn’t resist buying four for breakfast. We’ll have mushroom omelettes. I also bought some of their delicious Cheddar for macaroni and cheese. I’ll prepare a casserole after breakfast, and we’ll have it for lunch.”

She had touched the two most vulnerable spots in his considerable appetite. Defeated, he mumbled, “Sounds good,” and proceeded to rationalize: Actors need audiences, writers need readers, and cooks need mouths to feed.

“Yow!” said Koko.

“He talks more than Jeoffrey does,” she said.

“Koko is a communicator.” They were sitting on the lake porch, waiting for the purple martins to swoop in for their evening ballet, during which each bird would consume his weight in mosquitoes, according to conventional wisdom. Yum Yum was on a nearby chair with Gertrude. Koko was on his pedestal. “He’s a very smart cat,” Qwilleran went on. “That’s because I read aloud to them. Yum Yum goes to sleep, but Koko listens, and his brain absorbs meanings even if his ears don’t know words.”

“Thought transference,” she said. “But how does he communicate?”

“He finds away. His senses are incredible. He knows when the phone is going to ring. A couple of weeks ago he knew there was a dead body buried in beach sand near here, and he led me to it.”

Tess said, “All cats are prescient to some extent. They’re aware of an approaching storm, or even an earthquake. Have you had any studies made of Koko’s capabilities?”

“No! I don’t want any studies, any publicity. This conversation is between you and me … Do I have your word?”

“Absolutely! And when I get home I’m going to start reading to Jeoffrey and Princess.”