Cat Who Went Up the Creek

In his younger days Qwilleran had often thought, If I can’t play second base for the Chicago Cubs, or write for The New York Times, or act on the Broadway stage . . . I’d like to be an investigator. And now even so nebulous a mystery as Lori’s “dark cloud” piqued his curiosity. Furthermore . . .

Qwilleran relished a frequent change of address. His early experience as a globetrotting correspondent had given him a chronic case of wanderlust. The Black Creek venture would be timely; the chief woman in his life was leaving on vacation. Polly Duncan, director of the Pickax public library, planned to tour museum villages on the East Coast in the company of her sister, who lived in Cincinnati. Qwilleran wondered about these sisterly flings. In Canada the previous year they had met a highly personable Quebec professor, and he had been corresponding with Polly ever since . . . in French! She said it helped her brush up on her idioms.

Qwilleran would drive her to the airport in the morning, but tonight there would be a farewell dinner in the Mackintosh Room at the hotel.

As soon as they were seated, he asked the usual fatuous questions. “Are you all packed? Are you excited?”

“I hate to leave Brutus and Catta, but there’s a cat-sitter in the neighborhood who’ll come in twice a day to give them food and attention. This morning I wrote a limerick about Catta while I was showering: A female feline named Catta / is getting fatta and fatta / but she’s pretty and purry / and funny and furry / so what does an ounce or two matta?”

“I couldn’t have done ‘betta’ myself,” he said, with apologies. “If we announce another limerick contest this summer, will you be one of the judges?”

“I’d love to! Meanwhile, what are you going to do while I’m away?”

“Read trashy novels and give wild parties, if I can find anyone who likes wild parties. . . . But seriously, I plan to spend a couple of weeks at the Nutcracker Inn in search of new material for my column.”

“I wish you were coming with me, Qwill.”

“Maybe next year, but no museums! I get all the education I want on the ‘Qwill Pen’ beat.”

“We could go to the Italian hill country and read poetry, far from the madding crowd.”

“The madding crowd is everywhere these days, Polly—taking snapshots and buying postcards. And by the way, when you send me postcards, bear in mind that the picture on the front is less important than the message on the back! More news! More news!”

His own words would ring in his ears for the next two weeks; Polly always cooperated with zeal.

But first Qwilleran had to get her to the airport for the 8:00 A.M. shuttle flight to Minneapolis. After tearful good-byes to Brutus and Catta and a race to the airport, the flight was delayed because the pilot of the shuttle had not arrived. According to the airport manager, the pilot’s baby-sitter was ill, and she was having difficulty finding a substitute. Eventually she arrived and passengers were reassured that they would make their connections.

When the plane finally taxied to the runway, lifted off and disappeared into the sky, the groundlings watched it go, as if witnesses to a miracle.

On the way home Qwilleran pulled off the highway to make some phone calls. Moose County was the first in the state to prohibit use of a cell phone while operating a vehicle. The county commissioners expected enough revenue from traffic tickets to build a soccer stadium.

First he called Andrew Brodie, the Pickax chief of police. “Andy, I’ll be out of town for a few weeks, and I have a bottle of twelve-year-old single-malt Scotch that’s too good to leave around for burglars. How about coming over for a nightcap?”

The chief, always interested in crime prevention, said he would be there at 10:00 P.M.

Next Qwilleran phoned Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Moose County Something. “Junior, I’ll be faxing the copy for my next few columns. I’ll be crossing the Egyptian desert by dromedary.”

“So soon? You just got back from doing Paris by skateboard!”

“I have to keep my column fresh, you know.”

“Don’t let it get too fresh,” Junior warned. “We have a conservative readership.”

On the way home, Qwilleran made a mental list of things to do and items to pack for the trek to Black Creek, half an hour from home:

Notify post office.

Notify attorney.

Notify janitorial service.

Empty refrigerator.

Pack clothes, writing materials, books, magazines.

Pack cats’ commode and two large bags of cat litter, two plates and two water bowls, vitamin drops, grooming essentials, Koko’s harness and leash, old paisley necktie.

Take trail bike and Silverlight.

The Siamese were waiting for him apprehensively; they knew! They sensed a change in their comfortable lives.

“You’re going on vacation!” Qwilleran assured them. “You’re to be guests at a glamorous inn that has room service and a chef from Palm Springs—or Palm Beach. There’s a resident cat named Nicodemus who’s very friendly. And you can even go up the creek in a canoe.”