The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  And now those two likable and attractive women were going to Paris!

  NINE

  The next day, a Tuesday, Qwilleran met his Qwill Pen deadline but felt an underlying disappointment, although he kept telling himself to snap out of it. Everywhere he went, the entire population of Pickax seemed to know that Polly was going to Paris without him.

  One conference was with Lisa Compton, who wanted to update him on the proposed program at the Senior Health Club. When given a choice of venue, she gladly chose the barn.

  “How’s your crotchety and lovable husband?” he asked. Lyle was superintendent of schools.

  “Crotchety and lovable, in that order,” she said cheerfully.

  They decided it was too good a day to sit anywhere but the gazebo.

  He asked, “Is there anything the Qwill Pen can do for you?”

  “That’s for you to decide, Qwill. I’ll tell you where we stand. The building itself is progressing incredibly fast. With all-volunteer labor. We’re selling memberships and collecting ideas for activities. I’ve never seen this town so excited. The wonderful thing is that they want to learn how to do things! Does the Qwill Pen have any suggestions?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes! I’ve been thinking about it—and about the pleasure I get from writing a private journal. It’s not like a diary, where you record daily events—but a place for thoughts and ideas, no matter how personal or crazy. No matter how amateurish, it’s something to leave to future generations—something that will be appreciated. I’d be willing to introduce the idea, give a few tips—even read some of my own entries.”

  “Qwill! This is more than I expected! You could introduce the idea now—in the community hall, and get them started. Is there anything I should be doing?”

  “Just tell the stationer to lay in a good supply of ordinary school notebooks with lined pages.”

  That night as Qwilleran sat down to write in his private journal, he had a flashback to his lean and hungry years as a young man in New York. He wrote:

  My furnished room had an old windup Victrola and a single 78 record: Johnny Mercer singing “I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter.” I played it every night because I couldn’t afford to buy another one.

  Now, three decades later, it runs through my mind every night when I sit down to write to myself in my journal.

  Qwilleran’s phone rang frequently the following day.

  “Is it true about Polly?”

  “Why aren’t you going?”

  “Why Paris?”

  “Does she speak French?”

  “Are you giving a big party?”

  “How long will she be gone?”

  Finally he remembered the advice of his childhood mentor: “When fed up, take the bull by the horns.”

  He went downtown to Lanspeak’s Department Store and asked Carol about a going-away gift for Polly. “Not another scarf! And certainly not a bottle of French perfume!”

  She said, “We have a wonderful travel coat—gabardine—with snap flaps on the patch pockets—with secret pockets in the lining—and a brimmed rain hat. Polly looked at it but thought the price a little steep.”

  “I’ll take it!” he said. “In fact, I’ll take two. Is there a choice of colors?”

  Now, it seemed to Qwilleran, would be a good time to work on his senior program for Lisa Compton. It would be easy. He could tell an anecdote or two about Cool Koko…then show a stack of the school notebooks he filled with journal entries. Never a day went by without filling a page.

  On some days there were brief entries:

  When Yum Yum, my female Siamese, has access to a long hallway with many doors to bedrooms, bathrooms, etc., her performance is a wonder to watch. The doors are open; the rooms are unoccupied much of the time.

  With stiff legs and resolute steps, she proceeds to walk the length of the hall down the exact center, looking straight ahead. At each open door she stops in her tracks; her body remains motionless except for her head, which swivels to look in the room. Only her eyeballs move as she appraises the interior. Then, finding nothing of interest, she switches her head back to the main course and trudges on to the next open door.

  I have never seen her find anything of interest, but she continues her silent inspections.

  There are times when I would like to redesign this barn and put the front door in the front and the back door in the back. But what is the back? And what is the front?

  I stable my bicycles in the elegant foyer—and greet guests at the kitchen door.

  I guess this is what happens when you convert a drive-through apple barn into a residence. And it reminds me of the pioneers who founded Pickax. Did they have a mischievous sense of humor when they put North Street south of South Street…and when they put storefronts facing the alley and loading docks facing the street?

  Pickax is the quintessential absurdist city!

  That evening, Qwilleran phoned the Comptons and told Lisa he was ready to talk to the seniors about private journals. He had some free time. He would read a couple of his own entries. They could start their own journals without waiting for the Senior Health Club to be finished.

  Lisa said they would announce the date at the community hall.

  “There’ll be a crowd!” she said. “We’ll notify the Traffic Department.”

  On Thursday, Qwilleran felt the need for lunch and camaraderie with Kip MacDiarmid. The editor in chief of the Lockmaster Ledger was one of his best friends, and Kip’s wife, Moira, was the marmalade breeder who had presented the affable Dundee to the Pirate’s Chest. Their favorite restaurant was in the old Inglehart mansion.

  Kip’s first words were, “Moira says you and Polly must come to dinner soon.”

  “Polly’s leaving for Paris for two weeks,” Qwilleran said, “with Shirley Bestover.”

  When told the particulars, Kip asked, “Who’s planning their trip?”

  “It appears there’s a semiretired travel agent in Lockmaster, who will go along to see that they get the best of everything.”

  “Him, I know him! He’s an old roué, but I suppose Polly and Shirley can handle him. You might tip them off.”

  They talked about many things. “If you would syndicate your column in the Ledger, we’d run it on page one and it would double our circulation….

  “Want to know something, Kip? Our office manager at the paper says that most of the mail that comes addressed to Koko has a Lockmaster postmark…. You’ve got a bunch of Koko-nuts around here.”

  They mentioned the local election that was coming up. “The incumbent is sure to win,” Kip said. “The challenger is confident, but…as the saying goes, he couldn’t get elected dogcatcher!”

  Then Kip made a suggestion that launched Qwilleran like a rocket. It was just what he needed under the present circumstances. “Were you ever involved in the Theater of the Absurd?”

  “Yes, I was in New York and saw it at its best. I always wanted to write an absurdist play, but never did.”

  “There’s talk about a revival. Would you be interested?” Kip asked.

  “How about an original absurdist creation? How about: The Cat Who Was Elected Dogcatcher?”

  Then Kip changed the subject slyly: “Moira wants me to ask you if you’re still practicing medicine without a license. You could bottle this stuff and sell it.”

  He referred to a humorous verse Qwilleran had composed for his last birthday. He brought a card from his vest pocket printed with a typical Qwilleran limerick:

  An editor known as Kip

  Is said to run a tight ship.

  His heart is large,

  He’s always in charge,

  But he won’t take any lip.

  The editor said, “Whenever I’m feeling below normal, physically or otherwise, I read your prescription and it gives me a boost.”

  Qwilleran said, “I’ve been thinking of writing a book on the subject of humorous verse—”

  “Do it! I’ll buy the first copies a
nd give them to all my friends.”

  As they talked, Qwilleran’s gaze was prone to wander across the room to a table where three women were lunching in unusual hats.

  He remarked, “Polly would go for those bizarre hats, and she could wear one well.”

  The editor corrected him. “Moira says they’re called art hats.”

  “I beg everyone’s pardon” was the facetious apology. “Do you know the women who’re wearing them? They keep looking over here at us.”

  “They’re looking at your moustache. They all know who you are. They see your photo in the Qwill Pen on Tuesdays and Fridays…. I still think you should syndicate it to the Ledger.”

  “Pleasant thought, but it wouldn’t work.” He grabbed the check when it came to the table. “My treat. Tell Moira she can invite us to dinner when Polly gets back.”

  The editor left, and Qwilleran signed the check and left a tip, noting that two art hats had left the room, and the other woman was still eyeing his moustache.

  On the way out of the restaurant he said to the hostess, “I’m embarrassed. I know that woman at the fireplace table, but I can’t place her.”

  The hostess’s face brightened. “There are usually three. The public library is closed on Thursday, and they call themselves the Librarians Who Lunch. That one is Vivian Hartman, the chief librarian.”

  She looked very pleasant when he approached. Her hat, he noted, was brimmed and about a foot in diameter…two shades of velvet, and a large silk sash with a realistic peony.

  “I beg your pardon, are you Miss Hartman? I’m Jim Qwilleran from the Moose County Something.”

  “Yes, I know! Won’t you sit down?” she answered, and he pulled up a chair.

  “I must say I admire the hats you ladies wear.”

  “We make them ourselves…in memory of your Thelma Thackeray. Her brother Thurston had a veterinary hospital here. We’re still grieving over both of them. Not to mention her loss of twenty-five art hats.” She looked for his reaction.

  He nodded somberly. “Did you know that they had been photographed just before the calamity?”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “No one in Lockmaster knew!”

  “Our photographer was commissioned, and I went along to hold his lights. I could show you a set of glossy prints—if you would come for lunch at my barn next Thursday,” he said. “Thelma had commissioned a California woman to write a book, but she lost interest when the hats were destroyed…. Perhaps…”

  “Yes…perhaps,” the librarian said, “we might revive the idea.”

  TEN

  As F Day approached, Polly became more distracted. There was no time for dining at fine restaurants followed by a classical concert on the magnificent music system of Qwilleran’s barn. She spent her days instructing Judd and Peggy to take over the Pirate’s Chest in her absence. She spent her evenings making packing lists, reading about Paris, brushing up on her college French, having long telephone conversations with Shirley Bestover; Qwilleran felt left out. His offers of “any kind of assistance” were appreciated but apparently unneeded.

  That evening and in those to come, Qwilleran took the initiative to phone at eleven P.M., knowing that Polly would be distracted with last-minute considerations of all kinds. She had not yet told him when she was leaving, and he stubbornly refused to ask. He said not a word about his Theater of the Absurd project (she had always despised that kind of play) or the Librarians Who Lunch.

  Polly told him, “Wetherby Goode will take Brutus and Catta to the Pet Plaza and visit them twice a week. Isn’t that thoughtful of him? Dr. Connie will water my plants and take in my mail. We have such wonderful neighbors at the Willows.” (Qwilleran had no comment.)

  She said, “There’s a five-hour difference in time between Paris and Pickax, dear, so we’ll have to forgo our late-night chats.”

  “I’ll give you a pocket recorder to take along, and you can dictate a running account of your adventures to bring home.”

  He told her, “If any problems arise in Paris, don’t hesitate to contact me collect—at any hour of the day or night, regardless of time differential.”

  When his parting gifts were delivered (blue gabardine for her, khaki gabardine for Shirley), the two women were overwhelmed. It was not until they had left for the Lockmaster airport in Shirley’s son’s limousine that Qwilleran felt at ease again, and not even lonely! After all, he had Koko and Yum Yum for companions, two columns a week to write for the newspaper. He was committed to deadline on Homer Tibbitt’s biography. He was working on his program for the Senior Health Club, to be given at the community hall since the redesigned building was far from complete. Also, the Literary Club’s visiting lecturer on Proust was scheduled to be his overnight guest at the barn. (He was said to be an ailurophile, so Koko’s aerial demonstrations would be amusing, not threatening.) Plus, to write a play in the absurdist style. All this…and Polly would be gone only two weeks!

  Later that evening Qwilleran called Kip MacDiarmid at home. “Were you serious about my writing an absurdist play?”

  “I think it would be a hoot,” Kip replied.

  “Would you use the title I suggested?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Why not? When can you do it?” Kip asked.

  “I’ve just done it; it took half an hour. I’ll send it to your office by motorcycle messenger in the morning.”

  THE CAT WHO GOT

  ELECTED DOGCATCHER

  A Play in One Act by Jim Qwilleran

  CAST

  Man with dog on leash

  Woman with cat in arms

  Street sweeper with broom

  SCENE

  A park with trees painted on background…park bench in bright green, center front…Trash barrel overflowing in rear.

  WOMAN (to cat in arms): Stop complaining, Jerome! If I put you down in the wet grass, you’ll only want to be picked up again.

  Enter MAN (with dog tugging on leash): No, Eugene, it’s against the law. (Sees woman.) Oh, hi! Hi!

  WOMAN: Hi!

  MAN: Is that Jerome? I thought he skipped town after the…incident.

  WOMAN: He came back.

  MAN: Does he have any means of support?

  WOMAN: His constituents are raising a slush fund.

  MAN: Is that what he eats?

  WOMAN: He’ll eat anything.

  MAN: He looks as if he eats better than I do.

  WOMAN: Do you have time to sit down?

  MAN: They just painted the benches.

  WOMAN: That was last week.

  They both sit…and look surprised.

  WOMAN: Oh, well, I wasn’t going anywhere. How about you?

  MAN: I had an appointment at the traffic court.

  CAT: Yeowwww!

  WOMAN: You’re sitting on his tail.

  MAN: Has the candidate ever held office?

  WOMAN: Only as rat catcher.

  MAN: Why did he quit?

  WOMAN: No reason.

  MAN: What makes you think he could catch dogs?

  CAT: Yeowwww!

  WOMAN: See? He’s quite confident.

  MAN: I’m still sitting on his tail!

  WOMAN: Jerome! The gentleman has offered to be your campaign manager!

  CAT: (Hisses at man.)

  WOMAN: Jerome! This gentleman is here to get you votes!

  MAN: Frankly, I don’t think his name is suitable for public office.

  WOMAN: What would you suggest? Pussy?

  MAN: I had in mind something strong like Tiger…OUCH!

  WOMAN: Jerome! That’s politically incorrect!

  MAN: I’m not sure he’s qualified.

  WOMAN: Jerome! Behave!…He hasn’t had his lunch. He knows you have a sandwich in your pocket.

  MAN: It’s only peanut butter.

  WOMAN: He’ll eat anything except spinach.

  MAN: (Attempts to leave in defense of his sandwich.)

  All three are stuck.

  The End

  That night Qwilleran added t
o his private journal:

  Well, she’s gone. There was no send-off. She just faded away. It would have been different if I were living at the Willows. But the weather’s much too good at the barn. Carol Lanspeak said that the two mature women probably looked like the Bobbsey Twins with their blue and khaki outfits. Tonight I watched Koko at eleven o’clock to see if he expected a call. He ignored the phone. He knew she was on her way to France…if not already there!

  When the Linguini Party Store truck delivered another supply of Squunk water and other treats, Qwilleran was pleased to see Daisy Babcock step out of the passenger side. She was waving a camera.

  “Libby Simms at the Old Manse wants me to take a picture of Koko. She memorizes everything you write about him. I told her you wouldn’t mind.”

  “True! But Koko will mind. Whenever a camera is pointed in his direction, he crosses his eyes, bares his fangs, and scratches his ear…. But go ahead. They’re both in the gazebo.”

  He helped Alfredo unload.

  “I see your wife is still working at the Old Manse.”

  “Can’t pry her away from that place.”

  “No more bee stings?”