Cat Who Went Up the Creek

As Qwilleran chewed his steak reflectively, he compared the two photographers. Bushy, whose talent bordered on genius, was as excited as a little kid over the prospect of signing a contract for an art book. Doyle reacted with a cool “No problem.”

Qwilleran could only hope that the owl and the skunk and the young foxes were as good as the photographer thought.

When he returned to the creek, he had half a sourdough roll in his pocket for the ducks. He was pinching off morsels for the hungry flock when a pleasant voice called to him from the porch of Cabin One. Hannah was inviting him to have a glass of iced tea. Although already coffee-logged, he accepted.

“I can’t tell you what a wonderful time I had last night, Qwill! You’re such a gracious host.” There was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table, and she swept it into a box, explaining, “Danny was here this afternoon. I must tell you, Qwill . . . This morning I went next door and told Marge that I was lonesome for my grandson and I wished Danny could visit me for story-telling and games for a little while each day. She hesitated and then said yes. So this afternoon he came over, and we had a wonderful time. I taught him to sing ‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout; / Here’s my handle and here’s my spout.’ And I saw that boy laugh for the first time. Then I taught him how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ He’s had no upbringing and certainly not much family life. And he has only one tired white T-shirt. I gave him one that my grandson left here—blue, with a pocket, and he’s so thrilled with that pocket! He’s never had a shirt with a pocket.”

“Excuse me for changing the subject, Hannah, but what’s that on your ring finger?”

She blushed and said, “You didn’t meet Uncle Louie, our choral director, did you? We’ve been getting kind of interested in each other—he’s a widower—and today he took me to lunch and gave me this!”

“Well! Best wishes to you both.”

“And he told me to ask you something. He wants to compose a comic opera—sort of a parody of Gilbert and Sullivan—and he wonders if you’d write the libretto.”

Qwilleran stood up to leave. “Only if Koko can play the lead.”

Walking home along the creek and approaching Cabin Three, he noticed that the Underhill car was not there. That meant, probably, that Doyle had taken Wendy out to celebrate. Wrong! She came flying off the screened porch.

“Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much for what you’ve done! Doyle went to the art center to get a head start on the developing. There’s so much to do.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “The art book is only a good idea whose time has come.”

chapter twelve

Whiskers tickling the nose and a soft paw patting the eyelid could do it every time—quickly, quietly, efficiently. Qwilleran awoke with a start on Tuesday morning, as two furry bodies leaped from his bunk and headed for the kitchen. Despite the rude awakening he was in a good mood—still elated after Monday’s successes, still sharing the excitement of two young photographers about to publish their first book. He remembered his own first book, City of Brotherly Crime. It was completely forgotten now, and he was lucky to have salvaged a single copy, thanks to the late Eddington Smith.

It occurred to him momentarily that Doyle’s photos might not compare favorably with Bushy’s superb landscapes. That was a chance they were taking. An owl is an owl is an owl; there is always something noble about an eight-point buck and something comic about a skunk. Such thoughts were interrupted by a call from the attorney.

Barter said, “I’ve lined up the K Fund boys in Chicago, but the appointment will have to be Thursday, not Wednesday.”

“That’s all right. It will give Doyle an extra day to prepare his samples.”

“Will you write a preface to the book, Qwill?”

“By all means. And I’ll volunteer to write the cutlines.” Whatever Doyle’s wildlife shots lacked in originality, a skillful cutline could cover up with words.

He took his typewriter to the screened porch to work on his Tuesday column, and Koko was sitting alongside the machine, observing the operation—until a sudden sound or scent made his head jerk to the south and his whiskers bristle: Trespasser approaching!

It was Wendy, carrying a white bakery box. “Come in,” Qwilleran called to her. “What are you carrying so carefully? Koko thought it was a bomb.”

She said, “Doyle went to the art center, and Hannah and I drove to Fishport for some of those sweet rolls you like. You can keep them in the freezer—just a little thank-you for making things happen.” Her eyes were shining, and she bubbled with enthusiasm. “You know, Qwill, I’ve been so worried about Doyle that I haven’t been able to work on my family history, but suddenly I feel inspired again.”

“You never told me what inspired you in the first place. You said it was a dramatic incident.” Qwilleran sensed fodder for the ever-hungry space on page two. “I’d like to tape it.”