about gin gin
While visiting a friend in Paris, I met her cat, Gin Gin, a charming Siamese who presented me with a green feather when we were introduced. It was an obvious compliment, because the feather was his favorite possession. We shared it during my stay. He was always busy with it, carrying it around, putting it in some special place, guarding it, letting me have it for a brief while—a most engaging ritual! But after I returned home, my friend wrote to say that Gin Gin had lost his feather! He was distraught! The apartment had been turned upside down in search of the feather. No luck! Friends brought other feathers in other colors. Gin Gin wanted his own green feather! How to explain this? What to do?
My advice: Consult a psycatatrist. I presumed there would be one in Paris.
I wrote in the “Qwill Pen” column: “Yum Yum has a new and amusing prank. She pulls the bookmark out of the book I’m reading, causing me to lose my place. Very funny! Someday she’ll learn how to put it back in the wrong place, and that’ll be a real boffo!”
The questions about cats’ humor brought such a flood of replies from readers that it was necessary to add to the staff in the mail department. Slitting envelopes, reading the contents, returning the letter in the envelope (a chore in itself), and routing it to me was a time-consuming process until the management decreed that all communications to the “Qwill Pen” must be condensed to fit on a government postal card. As a result, the sale of postal cards became so overwhelming in Moose County post offices that an investigation was thought necessary at one point; it was feared that the cards were being used for some illegal purpose. At the newspaper a part-time assistant is still required to scan and classify the messages. My query about the feline sense of humor brought more responses than any other topic, leading to the conclusion that the sense of humor belongs less to the cat and more to the cat lover. Some examples:
“My cat likes to steal the top of my pen and bury it in his commode. (A scatological joke.) By the time I dredge it out of the kitty gravel, the bottom of the pen has disappeared.”
“When I put my hand in my pocket, I never know what I’ll find: a grape? . . . a dollar bill that doesn’t belong to me? . . . a fur ball? . . . or worse?”
“What is so funny about dragging a toothbrush into the living room when you have company that you’re trying to impress?”
“Untying shoelaces has become the national feline pastime. This may explain the trend to loafers.”
“The members of our family have lost a total of eleven lipsticks—never found! We think our Tom Tom is operating a black market in cosmetics. Now eye shadow has turned up missing.”
“The vibration from heavy truck traffic, the nearby airport, and abandoned mine shafts used to tilt the pictures on the wall—or so we thought, until we caught our roguish tabby in the act.”
“Don’t let your cats out,” the neighbors warned. “There’s a cat killer stalking the neighborhood. Raccoon, fox, wild dog—we don’t know what it is.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “My cats don’t even go on the screened porch unless I’m in the cabin. If I have to go into town, I lock them up indoors.”
It was our first summer in the seventy-five-year-old log cabin. The nearest neighbors were half a mile down the beach. My two city-bred cats were in heaven—watching the wildlife. From the kitchen porch they could see birds, chipmunks, rabbits, and even garden snakes.
The screened porch on the lakeside was screened on three sides, from floor to ceiling, with a panoramic view of seagulls, grasshoppers, sandpipers—and more chipmunks. Those little striped beasties with twitching noses and flirty tails came right up to the screen to tease Yum Yum.
One afternoon—I’ll never forget that day if I live to be a hundred!—I was typing at the dining table. Koko was on the kitchen porch, scolding the wildlife; and Yum Yum was being unusually quiet on the lakeside porch.
Suddenly there was a wrenching, tearing sound! I rushed out in time to see Yum Yum chasing a chipmunk! A corner of the old screening had torn away! And Yum Yum was chasing a chipmunk down the side of the dune, where they both disappeared in the tall beach grass.
I called her name loudly and thrashed through the tall grasses in vain. There was a flash of movement headed east, and I followed on the sandy shore—calling her and watching for movement in the weeds. Occasionally there would be a glimpse of light-and-dark fur, just ahead. At first I was angry! Where did she think she was going? Why didn’t she answer my stern calls? Then anger gave way to panic as I thought of the “cat killer”! The heat of anger was replaced by cold sweat. She was so young, so small! She would be helpless! Would she know enough to climb a tree?
I was thrashing around in the beach grass like a madman. I was calling her till I was hoarse.
Then my heart sank as I saw a large brown animal running our way.
I was ready to battle him bare-handed. He stopped near a fallen tree, its rotted trunk broken in pieces. He sniffed it. I yelled at him—some kind of thundering curse—and reached for a branch of the fallen tree. He whimpered and lowered his head as he turned and headed back down the beach.
Only then did I hear a small cry: “Now-w-w!” It was coming from inside the rotting log. Down on my hands and knees I could see her squirming to get out of the hollow log.
All I could say was, “Yum Yum . . . Yum Yum” as I stuffed her inside my shirt and jogged home.
The old screens were immediately replaced on both porches and eventually I learned the big brown dog who led me to shivering Yum Yum was a harmless collie belonging to one of the cottagers. I apologized to the collie. His name was Robbie.
I was a precocious fourth-grader when I discovered that rhymed words can be funny, and I started writing slightly naughty couplets about our teachers. Example:
Old Miss Perkins, flat as a pie.
ever had a boyfriend, and we know why.
My chum Arch Riker sold them in the school yard for a penny. Unfortunately, our enterprise was short lived. Now, several decades later, I entertain myself by writing limericks—and encouraging others to do so. “Anyone can write a limerick” is my slogan. And the good folk of Moose County have become writers of rhymed jingles with the traditional five lines in a-a-b-b-a rhyme scheme.
The best limericks focus on a person or a place. The winner of the annual Qwill Pen Limerick Contest celebrated the town of Brrr, coldest in the county, where the lake is said to be frozen ice in winter and melted ice in summer.
There was a young lady from Brrr
Who always went swimming in fur.
One day, on a dare,
She swam in the bare,
And that was the end of her!
Here in the boondocks it’s noticeable that animals, wild and domestic, so often are the stars of our limericks:
A sexy young tomcat named Jet
Loved every lady he met.
One day he got ill
And they gave him a pill,
And now he’s suing the vet.
A black-and-white stray named Toulouse
Found a home in the county of Moose.
Now he dines on ice cream
And chicken supreme
And oysters and pâté of goose.
An amazing young fellow named Cyril
Was ingenious, agile, and virile.
He ran up and down trees
On his hands and his knees
And eventually married a squirrel.
A sweet little feline named Catta
Is getting fatta and fatta.
But she’s very nice
At catching mice
So what do an ounce or two matta?
A bibliocat named Dundee
Is as Scotch as a feline can be.
He quotes Burns quite a lot
And reads Sir Walter Scott
And dines on haggis and tea.
A handsome young feline named Frodo
Is aware of the meaning of no-no.
But he doesn’t give a tat
&nbs
p; Because he is a CAT
And thinks everyone else is a Dodo.
Old Bubba is not very brave
And hasn’t learned how to behave.
But he warns of dangers
And murderous strangers.
And we’ll love him from here to the grave.
A live-in charmer—Miss Kitty—
s blue-eyed and loving and pretty.
Chasing to and fro
She never says no.
She’s a cat, not a girl. What a pity!
16.
cool koko also says
Dumb animals know more about humans than dumb humans know about animals.
When the man’s away, the cats will play.
Ring out, wild bells! Here comes the dogcatcher.
A penny saved . . . isn’t worth a sniff of catnip these days.
A dog by any other name would smell like a dog.
Half a dish of cream is better than none.
A cat can look at a king . . . and doesn’t have to lick his boots.
Bite not, lest ye be bitten.
What’s your cat’s name? Ask that question and brighten someone’s day. People seem to enjoy telling the names of their pets—and how they came together.
They’ll say, “Her name is Snowball. A dear friend in Florida had a litter of kittens and wanted me to have one for old times’ sake. The little thing flew north all by herself, and we drove to the Chicago airport to meet her. There she was sitting in a travel coop, quite self-possessed, among all the luggage. She melted our hearts. Her name on the coop was Sunshine, but we thought Snowball was more appropriate. She didn’t mind.”
Or they’ll say, “His name is Pasha. When we found him, he was an abandoned kitten stuck in a drainpipe and crying his eyes out. At first we called him Little Devil because he was so naughty, but he grew into a lordly member of the family and we call him Pasha.”
There are scores of reasons for naming cats. I know a cat in Japan called Mr. Jones, and a cat in Kansas named Hiroshi.
I also know a Siamese who was named Bootsie when he was a kitten because of his little brown feet. When he grew up to be a handsome adult, he appeared to have an emotional problem; he was shy and disagreeable with outsiders. When renamed Brutus, he developed a whole new personality: sophisticated, forthright, and obviously the head of the household.
What’s the name of your cat? When readers of the “Qwill Pen” column were asked that question, an avalanche of postal cards descended on the mail room of The Moose County Something.
Pinky and Quinky for a pair of longhairs—short for propinquity and equanimity.
Toulouse for a black-and-white longhair—suggested by the black-and-white posters of the artist Toulouse-Lautrec.
Jet Stream, for the companion of the WPKX weatherman.
Holy Terror, for the obstreperous Siamese living under the same roof as a retired clergyman.
I noted that two-syllable names are in the majority—the better to catch a cat’s attention, perhaps. . . . A few names are uncomplimentary—the less said about them, the better. A few are named after famous personages, but they are unwieldy and say more about the cat-person than about the cat. I find nothing catly about Socrates or Babe Ruth. Nor do I approve of calling a cat George or Pauline.
The largest category of cat names submitted by readers were those connected with food. They amuse the humans without offending the pets. Peaches, Pumpkin, Jellybean, Ginger, Pepper, Strudel, and Popcorn.
But he’s your cat, and if you want to call him George (after your grandfather) it will be okay with him, as long as you feed him well.
I’ll never forget the trick a delicate little seven-pound cat played on two healthy adult males at the Nutcracker Inn. It had to do with her uncanny sense of spatial relationships.
At home she liked to sit on top of a seven-foot cabinet and watch the scene below without getting involved. She would stand in front of it, look up, crouch, then rise to the top in a fluid leap, propelled by her incredible hind legs. She never fell short and never overshot the mark.
When I had a visitor, Yum Yum would walk into the room just enough to make her presence felt (she liked compliments) but not close enough to be grabbed. Scientists say a cat gauges how far a human can lunge, adjusting for the individual’s height and arm length.
One summer I took the Siamese to the Nutcracker Inn for a short vacation. We asked for a cabin near the creek, but it had not been vacated, so they gave us a room in the tower, temporarily.
When it was time to move to the cabin, the porter came up to help with the luggage.
Koko jumped into the carrier, ready to go, but Yum Yum never likes a change of address. She disappeared under the bed. Lying flat on the floor, I tried to grab her, but it was a queen-size bed, and she was positioned under the exact center, beyond reach.
“No problem,” said the porter. “The bed’s on rollers. I’ll pull it to one side, and you grab her.”
He pulled, and I grabbed. But Yum Yum moved with the bed, staying under its exact center. He quickly rolled it back into place, and Yum Yum just as quickly stayed in dead center.
“Ignore her,” I said. “Start taking the luggage out . . .”
Immediately Yum Yum wriggled out of her hiding place and jumped into the carrier with Koko.
That’s what I mean about cats. They’re always trying to make fools of us humans.
Although he has never owned a wristwatch, Koko is keenly aware of time. At eight A.M. sharp he expects breakfast. At twelve noon his midday treat is scheduled—something crunchy, good for his teeth. At six P.M. dinner is served, and it had better be on time. At eleven P.M. it is bedtime snack and lights out.
Occasionally, I invite a friend or two in for drinks and music in the evening. The cats are not in evidence, but at quarter to eleven Koko becomes nervous and parades back and forth through the area where they are seated. If they are not gone by eleven o’clock he presents himself briefly, then turns and walks to the front door, looking back once or twice to see if anyone is following. Two or three of these maneuvers deliver a telepathic message to the guests, who say, “Well, it’s time I headed home” or “Thanks for a pleasant evening, Qwill. “
Koko’s finest moment occurred, however, on the evening of a cheese-tasting party to benefit the Literacy Council. It was black-tie. Fifty of the best people paid three hundred dollars a ticket for the privilege of tasting cheese and drinking wine in my converted apple barn, considered architecturally spectacular.
At nine o’clock the guests arrived by jitney and gasped at their first view of the barn floodlighted and resembling a medieval castle. Indoors the uplights and down-lights dramatized the balconies and ramps . . . the huge fireplace cube in the center of the space, with white stacks rising to a roof forty feet overhead . . . the living areas that surrounded the cube in one breathtaking flow of space.
The guests themselves glittered: the women in family jewels or beaded evening dresses; the men in dinner jackets and diamond studs. They drank amber punch and sampled cheeses from all over the world. Their small talk was witty.
Yum Yum watched from a safe distance, but Koko paraded among the guests, accepting their lavish compliments as his due. If he had owned a wristwatch, he would have been consulting it nervously. Eleven o’clock was approaching, and no one wanted to leave.
Suddenly there was a strange commotion in the kitchen, followed by a thumping and a growling and a loud shattering crash! Conversation stopped abruptly, and I rushed to the kitchen. When I tried to intervene the cat leaped over the bar and crashed into a lamp, sending the shade and the base flying in opposing directions. Women screamed and men yelled as Koko zipped around the fireplace cube and headed for the cheese table, scattering platters of cheese before leaping to the punch table and knocking over the lighted candles.
“Fire!” someone yelled.
“Grab him!”
Three men tore after the mad cat as he streaked around the fireplace cube with fur flying!
They bumped into furniture and each other.
“Somebody go the other way!”
Somebody did, but the trapped animal only sailed to the top of the fireplace cube and looked down on his pursuers.
“We’ve got him!”
A moment later Koko swooped over their heads and pelted up the ramp, not stopping till he reached the roof, where he perched on a beam and licked his fur.
I was embarrassed. “My apologies,” I said. “The cat went berserk. I don’t know why.”
Truthfully, I suspected that he wanted everyone to go home. It was, after all, eleven o’clock.
It was opening night of the new play at the K Theatre, and I was there as the drama critic of the newspaper. During intermission I met Nick and Lori Bamba in the lobby and suggested they come to my place for drinks after the show.
Nick, who had connections with the sheriff’s department, said, “There’s a stranger in town who’s wanted by the police for breaking and entering. He steals radios, cameras, things like that, that he can sell to support his habit, they think. People who’ve seen him say he wears a beard and drives a purple car. . . . Keep your eyes open!”
“There are quite a few purple cars around here,” I said, “and quite a few beards.”
After the final curtain, I left the theater before the applause and went home to turn on the lights and prepare for my guests. What I found was the most sickening shock I’ve ever had! The glass in the back door was broken! Koko’s wailing was gut-wrenching, and Yum Yum was missing.
The private life of the cat who...: tales of Koko and Yum Yum from the journal of James Mackintosh Qwilleran Page 3