The Cat Who Talked Turkey

SIX

On Wednesdays, the New York Times featured a food section, and Qwilleran always walked downtown to buy a copy—not that he wanted to know how to make a Moroccan cheese soufflé. His culinary activity was limited to feeding the cats and making a sandwich for himself. But he liked to read about the great chefs and the important restaurants.

Also, it was a good excuse to drop into the Scottish bakery for scones and marmalade and coffee. “Best marmalade I’ve ever tasted,” he said to the rosy-cheeked woman at the cash register. “Do you make it here?”

“Aye, laddie,” she replied. “It’s made from my great-grandmother’s receipt. It makes a big difference how long you boil the oranges in the sugar water. And how are the wee little kitties, Mr. Q?”

When Qwilleran arrived home with the newspaper, some cookies, and a jar of homemade marmalade, Koko met him at the door and was all over the place—on and off the kitchen counter, on and off the bar. There seemed to be no reason.

“Why do you think you can throw your weight around, young man?” Qwilleran asked. “You’re only a wee little kitty.” He had to chuckle.

But Koko was never wrong. There was a message on the answering machine, and the cat seemed to know it was important.

The throaty voice of Lish Carroll was even less attractive when recorded:

“Clarence is driving me to Milwaukee. I will work on your project. Back in time for rehearsals.”

Qwilleran was pleased. She had a positive attitude about the show . . . and she might solve the nagging mystery about Koko’s background and even his unusual talents. That being the case, what was the cat’s antagonism toward Lish? Was it the sound of her voice? Did he remember her pointing finger? Or (and this was ridiculous) did he resent intrusion into his heritage?

“All aboard for the gazebo!” he announced.

It required two trips to transport cats, coffee, cordless phone, typewriter, and Thornton’s thick file of research material. And it would take two hours to select and organize the information and interviews involved.

Applying himself to the task, he faced the formidable challenge of transforming bleak facts into breathtaking radio announcements, starting with Sunday, November 9, 1913.

It was an emotional experience, and he welcomed a respite; he phoned Polly at the library.

“Qwill! I’m glad you called! I’ve just talked to Benson’s office in Chicago. His secretary said he got into Chicago very late last night and had an early meeting this morning, but she said he was none the worse for the forced landing. He told his secretary it was—guess what!—an interesting experience. And what about you, Qwill? What have you been doing?”

“Working on my script. I finished segment one, after which the stage lights black out and the audience hears a minute of music. What do you think it should be?”

“Francesca da Rimini,” she answered quickly. “It’s good storm music.”

“We used it for fire music in ‘The Big Burning,’ ” he objected.

“No one will remember, dear.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“À bientôt!”

“À bientôt!”

What Qwilleran needed now was a writing challenge of a different sort, and he applied himself to The Private Life of the Cat Who . . . To date, he had written a dozen sketches, ranging from humorous to scholarly—from Koko’s macho exploits to Yum Yum’s feminine foibles.

He fortified himself with a cup of coffee and wrote the following:

THE MATTER OF THE SILVER THIMBLE

It’s like this: There are thousands of house cats, barn cats, and cat fanciers in Moose County, and readers of my “Qwill Pen” column enjoy hearing about the antics of the Siamese occasionally. They are awed by the handsome, intelligent Koko, but they love the sweet little Yum Yum, with her dainty demeanor and iron will. In fact, there is a Yum Yum fan club in the county.

Members of this unofficial organization send her crocheted mice that squeak and plastic balls that rattle. Her most precious possession, though, is a silver thimble, a gift from a dear reader no longer able to sew. “Cats,” she said, “love thimbles.”

Yum Yum has always liked anything small and shiny, but she is absolutely infatuated with her thimble.

She bats it around with her delicate paw, carries it from one venue to another in her tiny teeth, hides it, forgets where it’s hidden, then cries until I look under rugs, behind seat cushions, and in wastebaskets to retrieve it.

She has deposited it in the pockets of my jackets, in a bowl of mixed nuts, and down the drain of the kitchen sink.

I should take it away from her, but I haven’t the heart. She would pine away and die.

I have appealed to readers of the newspaper. All solutions to the problem will be thoughtfully considered. Address me in care of the psychiatric ward at the Pickax General Hospital.