Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“Good citizen. Gets involved.” The chief looked at his watch, and drained his glass. “Gotta pick m’wife up at the church.”

His departure ushered in the second stage of Qwilleran’s strategy. He brought the cats in from the gazebo, half-drugged with nocturnal lights, and then he gave them a larger-than-usual bedtime snack. They staggered up the ramp to the third balcony, and Qwilleran put a wildlife video (without the sound) on their VCR. Yum Yum was asleep before he closed the door, and Koko was swaying noticeably in front of the screen.

Congratulating himself, Qwilleran spent the next hour in feverish but silent activity—padding around in house slippers, packing luggage and boxes, quietly opening and closing doors and drawers, being careful not to drop anything.

Everything was going as planned. The chief had promised to keep an eye on the barn in his absence. Three weeks’ needs for man and cats were successfully stacked inside the kitchen door, ready for a pre-breakfast getaway, when Qwilleran turned off the lights and went to his suite on the first balcony. Before he could open the door, his ears were assaulted by a prolonged, high-decibel howl in two-part harmony from the upper precincts. He cringed. It seemed to say, You can’t fool us, you chump!

There was nothing more he could do or say; they would have to howl until their batteries ran down. Then it occurred to him to reread a chapter in a book he was writing. A collection of Moose County legends, it was to be titled Short & Tall Tales.

THE LEGEND OF THE RUBBISH HEAP

In the mid-nineteenth century, when Moose County was beginning to boom, it was a Gold Rush without the gold. There were veins of coal to be mined, forests to be lumbered, granite to be quarried, land to be developed, fortunes to be made. It would become the richest county in the state.

In 1859 two penniless youths from Germany arrived by schooner, by way of Canada. On setting foot on the foreign soil, they looked this way and that to get their bearings, and both saw it at the same time! A piece of paper money in a rubbish heap! Without stopping to inquire its value, they tore it in half to signify their partnership. It would be share and share alike from then on.

Their names were Otto Wilhelm Limburger and Karl Gustav Klingenschoen. They were fifteen years old.

Labor was needed. They hired on as carpenters, worked long hours, obeyed orders, learned everything they could, used their wits, watched for opportunities, took chances, borrowed wisely, cheated a little, and finally launched a venture of their own.

By the time they were in their thirties, Otto and Karl dominated the food-and-shelter industry. They owned all the rooming houses, eating places and travelers’ inns along the shoreline. Only then did they marry: Otto, a God-fearing woman named Gretchen; Karl, a fun-loving woman nicknamed Minnie. At the double wedding the friends pledged to name their children after each other. They hoped for boys, but girls could be named Karla and Wilhelmina. Thus the two families became even more entwined . . . until rumors about Karl’s wife started drifting back from the waterfront. When Karl denied the slander, Otto trusted him.

But there was more! One day Karl approached his partner with an idea for expanding their empire. They would add saloons, dance halls, and female entertainment of various kinds. . . . Otto was outraged! The two men argued. They traded insults. They even traded a few blows and, with noses bleeding, tore up the fragments of currency that had been in their pockets since the miracle of the rubbish heap.

Karl proceeded on his own and did extremely well, financially. To prove it, he built a fine fieldstone mansion in Pickax City, across from the courthouse. In retaliation Otto imported masons and woodworkers from Europe to build a brick palace in the town of Black Creek. How the community reacted to the two architectural wonders should be mentioned. The elite of the county vied for invitations to sip tea and view Otto’s black walnut woodwork; Karl and Minnie sent out invitations to a party and no one came.

When it was known that the brick mansion would be the scene of a wedding, the best families could talk of nothing else. The bride was Otto’s only daughter. He had arranged for her to marry a suitable young man from the Goodwinter family; the date was set. Who would be invited? Was it true that Otto had taken his daughter before a magistrate and legally changed her name from Karla to Elsa? It was true. Elsa’s dower chest was filled with fine household linens and intimate wedding finery. Gifts were being delivered in the best carriages in town. Seamstresses were working overtime on costumes for the wedding guests. Gowns for the bridal party were being shipped from Germany. Suppose there were a storm at sea! Suppose they did not arrive in time!

Then, on the very eve of the nuptials, Otto’s daughter eloped with the youngest son of Karl Klingenschoen!