The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers
Page 11
She said, “Qwill, I’ve been meaning to ask you: Could you help me start a private journal like yours? I think it would be rewarding.”
“It would be a pleasure!” he said. “We can have supper at a new restaurant I’ve discovered—if you like to live dangerously!”
She accepted, and he made another convert to his favorite hobby. He took two of his filled notebooks as examples—plus a new one to get her started.
After being seated, Qwilleran told Barbara that the restaurant had been started by a member of the Senior Health Club and younger members of her family. It was named the Magic Pebble as a joke, because it was across the highway from the Boulder House Inn.
He said, “The latter, as you know, is the grotesque pile of boulders as big as bathtubs, which has been famous since Prohibition days.”
Qwilleran handed Barbara a flat stone. “Do you know what this is?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “There’s a creek that comes rushing out of the hills into the lake near the Boulder House. The creek bed is filled with pebbles as big as baseballs, but at one point the water swirls them around and flattens them out mysteriously. The natives call them magic pebbles. If you hold one of the flat stones between your palms—and think—you get answers to problems. Even Koko reacts to a magic pebble. He sniffs it, and his nose twitches. Who knows what ideas are forming in his little head?”
During their conference he told her, “I don’t recommend typed pages in a loose-leaf binder. There is something inspiring about the primitive challenge of handwriting in an old-fashioned notebook.”
Barbara said, “I’m going to dedicate my journal to Molasses on the front page. Whenever I’m sitting in a chair and thinking, he jumps onto the back of the chair and tickles my neck with his whiskers. I sign my entries B.H. I have a middle name, but it begins with A and BAH doesn’t make a good monogram. When I was in school, the kids called me Bah Humbug.”
Barbara complimented Qwilleran on his Friday column, in which he had urged parents to be more careful in naming their offspring. He often thought parents naming their newborns should consider what the baby’s monogram would be. He had gone to school with a nice girl named Catherine Williams, but her parents gave her the middle name of her aunt Olive, and she grew up being kidded about her initials. Also, he knew a Pete Greene whose middle name was Ivan, a fact his friends never let him forget.
Qwilleran liked Barbara’s conversation, and they discussed numerous topics.
Barbara asked, “Are you writing another book, Qwill?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. On the subject of rhyme and rhythm. I’ve been writing humorous verse since the age of nine. We had a fourth-grade teacher that no one liked. I wrote a two-line jingle about her that got me in trouble.”
He recited: “‘Old Miss Grumpy is flat as a pie. Never had a boyfriend, and we know why.’”
“That was precocious for a fourth-grader,” Barbara said.
“I had heard grown-ups talking about her, but I got all the blame. Actually, it solved a problem. The kids went to her class smiling, and Miss Grumpy was less grumpy. Yours truly got reprimanded at school and at home, but I discovered the value of humorous verse. Now I specialize in limericks. There’s something about the “aa-bb-a” rhyme scheme and the long and short lines that can only be described as saucy. Its appeal is universal. I know a newspaper editor who carries one around in his pocket. He says he reads it whenever he needs a boost. And cats love limericks. I tested my theory on them. They don’t even speak the language, but they respond to the lilt of the rhythm and to the repetition in rhymed words.”
Barbara nodded approval.
Qwilleran said, “I’m working on the subject of limericks and how humorous verse often solves a problem by making people smile. The guests at the Hotel Brrr were always disgruntled about having to swim in the hotel pool when the temperature was too low in the lake. Now, each arriving guest receives a card with a limerick, and they walk around smiling.
He referred to:
There was a young lady in Brrr
Who always went swimming in fur.
One day on a dare
She swam in the bare,
And that was the end of her.
When they returned to the Willows, Barbara invited Qwilleran in to say good night to Molasses, and he accepted. He liked her range of interests, her forthright advice, her sense of humor. They were met by Molasses, very much in charge of the premises.
“You two have met,” she said as the two males stared at each other. Throwing back his shoulders and taking an authoritative stance, Qwilleran recited:
“Molasses, an elegant cat.
Would not think of catching a rat.
His manners are fine,
He drinks the best wine,
And on Sunday he wears a hat.”
Molasses flopped over on his side, stiffened his four legs, and kicked.
Then Qwilleran broached a subject he was not prone to discuss: Koko’s whiskers.
“Dr. Connie has volunteered to count them when he’s sedated for his dental prophylaxis, but somehow I feel guilty because I know he won’t approve. He’s a very private cat.”
“Then don’t do it!” Barbara said. “What purpose will it serve? Some humans are smarter than others. And some cats are smarter than others!” Qwilleran was impressed by her clearly stated opinion.
“You’re right!” he said. “We won’t do it!”