Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

Qwilleran's housemates were no ordinary cats, and his residence was no ordinary barn. Octagonal in shape, it was a hundred-year-old apple storage facility four stories high, perched on an impressive fieldstone foundation and topped with a cupola. To make the barn habitable, certain architectural changes had been made. Triangular windows had been cut in the walls. The interior, open to the roof, had three balconies connected by a spiraling ramp. And on the ground floor the main living areas surrounded a giant white fireplace cube with great white stacks rising to the roof. The barn would have been a showplace if the owner had not preferred privacy.

As for the cats, they were a pair of elegant Siamese whose seal-brown points were in striking contrast to their pate fawn bodies. The male, Kao K'o Kung, answered to the name of Koko; he was long, lithe, and muscular, and his fathomless blue eyes brimmed with intelligence. His female companion, Yum Yum, was small and delicate, with violet-blue eyes that could be large and heart-melting when she wanted to sit on a lap, yet that dainty creature could utter a piercing shriek when dinner was behind schedule.

One Thursday morning in September, Qwilleran was closeted in his private suite on the first balcony, the only area in the barn that was totally off-limits to cats. He was trying to write a thousand words for his Friday column, "Straight from the Qwill Pen."

Emily Dickinson, we need you!

"I'm nobody. Who are you?" said this prolific American poet.

I say, "God give us nobodies! What this country needs is fewer celebrities and more nobodies who live ordinary lives, cope bravely, do a little good in the world, enjoy a few pleasures, and never, never get their names in the newspaper or their faces on TV."

"Yow!" came a baritone complaint outside the door.

It was followed by a soprano shriek. "N-n-now!"

Qwilleran consulted his watch. It was twelve noon and time for their midday treat. In fact, it was three minutes past twelve, and they resented the delay.

He yanked open his studio door to face two determined petitioners. "I wouldn't say you guys were spoiled," he rebuked them. "You're only tyrannical monomaniacs about food." As they hightailed it down the ramp to the kitchen, he took the shortcut via a spiral metal staircase. Nevertheless, they reached the food station first. He dropped some crunchy morsels on two plates; separate plates had been Yum Yum's latest feline-rights demand, and he always indulged her. He stood with fists on hips to watch their enjoyment.

Today she had changed her mind, however. She helped Koko gobble his plateful; then the two of them worked on her share.

"Cats!" Qwilleran muttered in exasperation. "Is it okay with you two autocrats if I go back to work now?"

Satisfied with their repast, they ignored him completely and busied themselves with washing masks and ears. He went up to his studio and wrote another paragraph:

We crave heroes to admire and emulate, and what do we get? A parade of errant politicians, mad exhibitionists, wicked heiresses, temperamental artists, silly risk-takers, overpaid athletes, untalented entertainers, non-authors of non-books...

The telephone interrupted, and he grabbed it on the first ring. The caller was Junior Goodwinter, young managing editor of the Moose County Something. "Hey, Qwill, are you handing in your Friday copy this afternoon?"

"Only if the interruptions permit me to write a simple declarative sentence in its entirety," he snapped. "Why?"

"We'd like you to attend a meeting."

Qwilleran avoided editorial meetings whenever possible. "What's it about?"

"Dwight Somers is going to brief us on the Great Food Explo. He's spent a few days in Chicago with the master-minds of the K Fund, and he'll be flying in on the three-fifteen shuttle."

Qwilleran's petulance mellowed somewhat. The K Fund was the local nickname for the Klingenschoen Foundation that he had established to dispense his inherited billion. Dwight Somers was one of his friends, a local public relations man with credentials Down Below. "Okay. I'll be there."

"By the way, how's Polly?"

"She's improving every day. She's now allowed to walk up and down stairs - a thrill she equates with winning the Nobel Prize." Polly Duncan was a charming woman of his own age, currently on medical leave from the Pickax Public Library, where she was chief administrator.

"Tell her Jody and I were asking about her. Tell her Jody's mother had a bypass last year, and she feels great!"

Thanks. She'll be happy to hear that."

Qwilleran returned to his typewriter and pounded out another few sentences:

Collecting nobodies makes a satisfying hobby. Unlike diamonds, they cost nothing and are never counterfeited. Unlike first editions of Dickens, they are in plentiful supply. Unlike Chippendale antiques, they occupy no room in the house.

The telephone rang again. It was a call from the law firm of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter, and Qwilleran groaned. Calls from attorneys were always bad news.